blinded by the light

I have these sunglasses that i wear when i run, and this morning it really dawned on me that they actually do not work at all the way sunglasses are supposed to (read: block out bright rays while still allowing you to see things in front of you). In fact, they never have done that, though it seems i'm just grasping this fact now. What they do offer me is momentary blindness when the sun shines fully in my face. It's funny because they're actually made by some running company or other and i got them at a running event. I don't think I'm wearing them wrong given that there's a limited way one can mess up the wearing of sunglasses short of putting them on the back of one's head, which i don't. But what happens is that when the sun hits the lens, I experience a complete white-out. It's as if the brightness fractures off the plastic and i'm blocked from seeing a thing. But yet I wear them.

And here's the thing, although i'm usually running over a route that i've traversed literally hundreds of times, when the flash of white hits, for those few seconds I'm completely suspended in nothingness. Can't see a thing in front of me and my heart beats faster not from the exercise, but from the exhilaration/panic of What If? What if I trip? What if I smash into something? What if I squash a squirrel? What if I go flying? What is ahead of me?

And what of that? I think i'm starting to understand that the less i can see, the more i can fly, mainly because there's no limit. When i do the proverbial seeing, I build up horizons and end-of-earth kinds of spaces. I invent windows and walls to bash into and get scared of flying too close to the sun. If i accept that i can't make out/up what's ahead, there's a lot more there there. Now for all intents that seems a pretty awesome thought, yet instead it terrifies me. It suggests flying without a net, soaring into my air space without a landing strip. Even as i'm running over terrain that i've done time and time again, it all feels differently when i can't actually see the ground under my feet or the one inch in front of me (and yes, i'm talking running/sunglasses and living life here). Looking for the road and finding none.

In the dance studio lately I've felt the impulse to truly fly, to climb higher, catch more air in my spins, and the subjects been brought up to get me more on my feet. Less bound on the ground, more unfurling upward. I'm all for it when i lead from my heart. When my mind gets involved, i drop back to my knees. Hmmm. Because what scares me most when i'm up there moving is that i'll fall and hurt myself. I want to wrap around the thought that the falling and the hurting is ok, in fact necessary, as is the lifting up and the pleasure, which happens also. I'm sensing that there's nothing solid to wrap around. The ground that is my life is shifting all the time and it still scares the hell out of me, but my heart beating fast is a good sign, whether running, dancing, breathing, it's all living and as far as i'm aware, no squirrels have been harmed in the process, cuz they see me coming with those sunglasses and that goofy smile and they get out of the way. Now it's time for me to get out of my own way.

yooHoo...

...over here, there's something i clearly want to show myself. it's pretty amazing how in paying attention to paying attention, in wanting to feel. every. thing. that occassions are coming up where i'm completely caught off guard in the intensity department.

Here i've been rolling along staying open to what arrives in my life, trying to put aside judgments about me and how i do things, looking to stay soft and make no hard rights or lefts into the shadows of what i think is real, etc. and whoop, there it is: A moment that delivers a surprising bruise through the very action that i opened myself up to and was eager to receive.

A couple of weeks ago i felt like it was time to expand my circle of fun and possibilities when it came to dating and jumped back onto the online trolley. i immediately noticed that my approach to this was night-and-day different from a couple of years ago when i was taking this ride. Back then i was really earnest about profiles (mine and others), what message they delivered, responding to every e-mail, weighing the pros and cons of second dates, etc. It was all really extremely exhausting. This time I decided to just go with the flow, check the site when I felt like it, respond to/send e-mails if the person seemed interesting, no rush, just go with it. In communicating with a couple of people, I set up some dates. one guy was nice, wanted to get together again, but i had no interest, and instead of laboring over "Oh-mi-gawd, he wants to go out again and i don't and what should i do?" I let myself be honest about it. One small step for dating, one huge step for me.

Another guy i felt more curious about, so set up a second date. He offered to make dinner at his. I gauged the safety-meter of my intuition and said yes. Lovely dinner, good food, cold beer, entertaining conversation. As it was coming to an end, the mood shifted toward something more physical and here's where my yooHoo moment whispered in my ear. As soon as the airspace between this guy and i began to shrink, my awareness of whether i wanted this or not began to expand. I couldn't suspend. whereas before i may have checked myself emotionally and had a well-so-this-is-happening-let's-see-where-it-goes moment, instead I felt myself on the verge of tears. Like seriously riding a wave of sadness. i felt totally taken by surprise in that i'd never had such a strong reaction to a moment like this. i could not step away from myself in this instance. And then the full emotion tumbled over me...and i actually started to cry. I'm fairly certain he was confused by the suddeness of actual tears rolling down my face. I was certainly stunned. it was surreal, yet absolutely real. Inside my yooHoo voice was saying You can't do this the way you used to, and i couldn't ignore the insistency, nor did i want to anymore. aaah. feel. every. thing.

so i left. couldn't get to the subway fast enough and kept wondering What triggered this? trying to look for actual real events in the evening: beer? (not enough to take me there.) food? (pasta rarely makes me weep.) something he said? (standard-issue conversation, no emotional kitten stories or anything.) I remembered something my teacher had said a week ago after I shed a piece of clothing during my dance that i always thought made me feel safe. she observed: you don't need that layer anymore. you think you do, but you're not there any longer. And there it was. In uncovering myself to myself, i can't anymore step outside of my experiences and wait in the corner while my body partakes, often numbly. my love life used to be a series of voices from the other room. and now those days are done. and while this is utimately a very very good thing, it was totally unsettling in the moment. like that feeling you have when you angle to return to something you know because it's familiar, yet you also know doesn't actually work anymore but think, well maybe if i can just stay there a little longer. yooHoo, guess what? probably not.

I sat on the train and before i could call any judgment on what had just happened (feeling silly or annoyed with myself), i remembered that i'd been asking for this. wanting to be open. to soften. to feel. and here it was. damn, i didn't think it would be so public. so this was what it meant to have the courage to be messy, to let metaphorical-mascara roll down my face in public. maybe i'll add that to my dating profile: kleenex optional.

the see

extending the ride from yesterday's post re: paying attention to inner stories, something happened today that had me take notice. And it revolved around one of my oh-so-favorite soft spots: money.

i got a message from a friend about some money moments that sent me into a judgmental storyline that was well on it's way to chapter infinity, when suddenly, in the middle of the weaving, i stopped and noticed. just stopped. and noticed. and asked: hey there, little lady, what's that story you're making up there? whyfore you doing that? um, because i'm used to spinning all kinds of tales about having, giving, managing money. because in order to make myself ok in this situation i have to make someone else wrong. because the fact that she asked for what she needs makes me uncomfortable. because i think i'm compassionate, but something like this exposes my judgments.

and i just watched myself. didn't do anything except notice. in fact, i think she's incredibly brave for asking, for letting me see her vulnerability and i thank her for letting me see mine.

the tell

while it's true that lately i've been channeling the words Feel Everything to remind myself to slow down and, in essence...uh, feel. every. thing. i've noticed how that takes a bit more reminding than i thought it would. the slowing down part, that is. I mean, i could just reach out and grab at stuff, as i used to do. have many random experiences by hurtling myself forward and then gathering up the feelings afterward to sort through and figure out, but instead i'm trying to come from another angle. float in stuff for awhile and let it move me, rather than me it.

one byproduct seems to be that i notice how many stories i make up about myself and others. some are just-cuz-i-can moments. For instance, the other night my friend, M, and i went to see a band play and as we were 2 rows from the front, i decided to study the people in front of me (it being crowded, i couldn't really turn around anyway). there was one woman in a leopard skin, one-shouldered dress with some bright-blondeness and spiked heels, which frankly just looked uncomfortable to wear to a rock show...but that's another thought-thread altogether. next to her was a teenager with a nest of curly hair that shook out little birds as his body spasmed back and forth (ok, not really on the birds part, but he was moving like i imagine a tree shakes in a hurricane). LaBlonde was standing stock still, staring intently at the stage, Bird'sNest rocked and pogo'd and bounced. here's the thing: the show hadn't started yet. Then it did. The opening band began and our-lady-of-heels' gaze never seemed to waver from the drummer, so i made up a Pamela Des Barres–scenario wherein she had once tempted him to her home and was now eager to do it again. in the meantime, nest o'curls standing next to her was losing his mutha-fuk'n mind: executing air-guitar moves, body-slamming, grabbing his friends(?) by the shoulders and shaking them. M and I made up that he was the nephew of the drummer (because they had the same hair), and therefore idolized the band beyond the valley of sanity. (Of course M also made up that LaBlonde was the drummer's aunt. He has a lot more innocent thoughts than me. but then i pointed out that if she was there doing a familial duty, she'd probably be sitting down at a table in the back and would also maybe not be wearing a leopard skin-print, one-shouldered dress and spiked heels.) Anyway, of course i never found out any truth around this situation, and of course that doesn't even matter. the fun was in the creation. But...

Stories. As much as i adore them, i am also starting to get how the ones i make up around and inside of my own life always nail me down. the ones that have to do with what i can and can't do. what will or won't happen. what i do and don't deserve. kind of an ongoing greek chorus of this and that. i'm realizing that it's not a matter of calling judgment on whether the stories are right or wrong (no such thing, really), but more just noticing that they exist, saying Hi and moving on. if i don't give them any power to rewrite my life, or put in a period when all i need is a comma, well then that's a story i can follow. I also employ them to cover me. I find i'll weave a tale together, then cover myself with it and hide out. I discovered in class last night that i'm bucking at the coverage, that i want to be seen, but often roll away from the moment when it gets too intense. in order to let people see me i want to drop my intricately woven cover and then stay where i am, no stories to distract, but instead an awesome blank page and maybe some invisible ink.

by any other name

I'm working on an editing project that has to do with words. Of course the book is written with, er, words, so there's that. But more specifically, the topic has to do with the cross-section of beliefs between Muslims and Christians and how each other's words are heard, felt and acted upon. Tricky things, these lettered vehicles. Nevertheless, they're what we've got, and roll them out we do. How they'll be received on the other end is anyone's guess.

Having made a career out of these little buggers, I know how slippery and surprising they can be. I actually just did a music bio for a new up-and-coming band, and while getting instructions on some rewrites I was told that the ladies in the band felt a couple of their quotes were taken out of context. Well at first my back went up (ok, it's still up when i dwell on it), but i can also see--and have had happen many a time--that none of us interpret things the same way. it's a little bit of a miracle, I think, that we're able to actually get the depth of what each other's saying at all, any of the time. but we do, and ultimately I have many awesome people that i think get me, what i'm saying, what i'm meaning. And i, them, as well.

It used to be that I'd look for opportunities to twist it up a bit, tease out the drama in the words, cuz the general sense in journalism was that if it bleeds it leads. One time, in particular, that was literally true. I was in the city of fog out west doing a story on a band who'd been on the cusp for so long (in music years) that they'd forged new territory balancing between success and obscurity. During my day spent with them, leading up to their rock show that night, the bass player decided he wanted to get his belly button pierced. seeing an opportunity for some possible drama, at least a bit of blood, to be added into the story, i went with him. as he jumped up onto the table in a slightly darkened room (why you'd want to get pierced in candlelight is anyone's guess. it made me queasy to think there might be a slip and he'd end up with a Prince Albert), the multiply pierced and tattooed woman who was going to decorate him pulled out her tray of tools: needles, antiseptic and such. He looked at the instruments, turned a bit green, wobbled, fainted and fell off the table. It was weird: One minute he was upright, a hardcore looking rock dude. The next he was a little boy crumpled on the floor. The piercing practitioner actually started to laugh. I was a bit apalled and a bit thrilled. Here was my lead...but damn, how embarrassing for him... Well, once he came to and as his eye began to blacken, the woman told him to get out of the shop and never come back. he got a little righteous to cover up his chagrin. Said he was pretty sure he hadn't eaten enough or some such, said that place sucked anyway. "You're not going to write about this, are you?" he asked. "Um. No?" I answered. words,words,words.

That night at the rock show, a kid yelled out from the audience, "Yo B, whuss'up wit yer eye? did'ya pummel someone?" And B just smiled, like, Hell yeah. that's the story and i'm sticking with it. And i realized, it's all how you spin those words and actions that count. Of course I led with that piercing peccadillo and B never talked to me again. But no matter, it didn't ruin his reputation much or for long...the band still teeters on the cusp and no one remembers that story anyway.

so the importance of words. entertaining? negotiable? necessary?

This weekend I had an amazing experience that reminded me how communicating without words can be transportive. In another darkened room with a group of amazing ladies, we poured out the language of beauty and stillness and pain and wonder and fun without saying much more than monosyllables. And we spoke volumes and it was good. I still love words, to say them, write them, roll around in their possibilities, but i'm really beginning to appreciate that I don't need to fill up all the empty spaces with them. Some things are better left unsaid.