I went for a massage last night. The woman who was to massage me wanted to please. I could see it in her smile and tentativeness. Took her awhile to get started; took ages to gingerly tuck the towel around my hair, I felt anxious with the ineffectual fussing. Get on with it, I wanted to say, in Mandarin. Her fear was not what I was here, nor paying, for. After 10 minutes I lifted my head, shaking it in No fashion. She went and got the interpretor. I explained that I needed pressure. The front desk translator summed that it wasn't enough pressure for me? I said it wasn't any pressure, just flat-handed rubbing. I had specified deep-tissue. They talked and we resumed. Another 5 minutes and I lifted my head shaking No again.
More waiting, then another woman took over. Immediately I could feel her command of her territory: my body. She asked for feedback and listened. I freely told her when something wasn't working for me, risking seeming bossy. After telling her to slow down a few times, she did, then felt where my pain was. She got it. She said so, I felt so. She understood. It took her some time to do so; it took me time, effort, and perseverance. This is what I came for. Was it me, or was it them? I wondered.
I can grant that perhaps I am complex and my painful muscles don't follow the lines of a chart. The first woman rode on my bones, not my muscles! The second one rubbed towards my head, instead of down away from my heart, riding the wrong in-side of the rigid rope, and as I kept directing her to the outside edge of it, that's when she dialled in. Finally. I could feel her hands listening then, and attending to my tightness, she did not need to be told. Tears came for having my pain understood.
Being heard, seen, felt, understood, and not judged is everything to me. It is one of the hardest things to deal with as a teacher, this need. Imagine talking to children who don't listen quite frequently. It drives me to distraction and emotional upset at times, which I override with my adult mind. I know it's not personal, and they mean no harm. Into my emotional center, however, the verbal and inattentive infraction contracts an upset. It's difficult to think when the agenda of others is in my space. I can't ignore the interruption. I'm so ingrained to care about others' thoughts before my own. My very being as a child was viscerally perceived as annihilation, by either being negated and overlooked in my silence, or shut down or taunted when I spoke my truth. Do not underestimate the influence of siblings; no less powerful than the relationship with parents.
Get this: A plant can thrive with only the requisite basic ingredients!
What is important is not going for what's missing, but what is covering, and being given valuable energy toward. The active voices vying for attention, that I pay allegiance to, rather than my true requisites.
More next time on what are my elixirs of water, sunshine, soil, and container.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
A Sprout from Fertile Soil
I employ this page in commitment to living a thriving life....
simply,
balancing health, work, rest, and play. Such is the life of a public school teacher. I work 10 hours a day, spend 3 to 4 hours expending all energies towards preparation. And the pay for all of this is pitifully low.
I don't wish to merely survive or maintain. I'm doing that; it comes with the price of a humming heart, smiling cheeks, widened eyes. Inspiration. Hope. Looking forward. Enthusiasm. Excitement. Creativity. Newness. Life.
I'm not thriving, I'm TIRED. I'm holding steady, holding on, then doubting myself, worrying unnecessarily. It's normal to feel this way when overtaxed mentally, physically, energetically, spiritually, emotionally.
This has got to change.
I have been paying allegiance to timely matters, when what brings me true joy is the pursuit of what lives in eternity, away from time, place, and identity: being in nature, growing and preparing food, sharing time with loved ones, laughing, walking, moving my body, feeling subtle sensations on my skin. Meditating. I do all these things, within a schedule. Well, that just doesn't work creatively.
Success is balancing all of what matters to me. My inherent spirit and soul needs optimal health for joy. Is choosing balance freely in the course of my day too much to ask? It is something I must take a risk at choosing. The risk of displeasing others, losing my job. Leaving situations. Facing discomfort, loss of money. Old age with no cushion or health insurance. These are a few of my favorite things to worry about.
To stay the status quo or live "safely" carries the risk of abandoning wonder and creative fulfillment. My daily routine doesn't allow my natural rhythm to lead, or, creative inspiration to flow. I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THOSE. (Really?)
They are checked at the door, like weapons of destruction to the schedule I keep, (the schedule that keeps me). Implements of creation held down in my subconscious, habitually keeping me safely ensconced from the edge of endeavors unknown. This is a risk to my creative mind, my natural propensity to ponder. The absence of vitality and playful energy moving through my being is a devolution. I have hit a wall.
I have felt lately, and strongly, absences of well-being flowing through me, and an overabundance of tiredness that remains as fatigue after hours of rest. Then, judging my desires and impulses as wrong, and not acting on them, fearing future lacks of money and love, living as if I haven't time to live freely and fully. Imagine that: not having time to live. Ridiculous.
If I continue to pledge allegiance to job and approval-rating, security or expression, then I'll do just that: continue. It's very predictable...more of the same, rather than true expression and what that brings to the field. It's unknown. And scary. My sense tells me that what the way I've been operating is scarier by comparison. This extreme tiredness, giving myself to my students and my duties, till it really hurts, is harmful.
I aim to be me, whatever that looks like, and not my job. My livlihood is not supporting me. I commit to honoring my instinctual impulses to shift my body on the mat two inches, because I know that small effort yields a better feeling; to stop and gaze at the sky, however long it takes to fill my eyes with blue, to walk at my speed, taking my time, not the clock's, the school's, the principal's, or the district's. I commit to lying still, until I feel moved to get up, if at all; to eat or not eat, exercise or not, defer the shower, the invite to socialize, until I feel moved to do so. And welcome in the pain, sadness, fear, tears, petty declarations. I did all this from Saturday noon until Sunday night, and was re-calibrated to balance. I was waay off course and did not know it. I did not move for hours, lied on my back, eyes open, closed, awake, asleep. I allowed sadness and anger to come through and be heard, my stories of love-lack, youth-beauty, family-support, departed opportunities . I cried, breathed, slept, hibernated. Accepted, Allowed, Appreciated. I watched a whole season of Doc Martin on netflix and laughed. Imitated British accents. I wrote pages to myself and conversed with my spirit. I hugged my blankets and the quiet, and communed in the company of me, Me, and the NOT-ME. My sons called me, my mom, and my good friend. An acquaintance. See? I'm not really unloved.
What happened during these hours of sloth-like repose, and full abandon to the base impulse to stop living without dying? Well, I began to listen to Me and not the voices of "reason", habit and circumstance. I began feeling excitement for a future that looks like my soul. I felt well-being seep through my veins, and bits of joy rise, and lo and behold, I felt like getting up and taking a shower and getting ready for tomorrow's day. And then more Doc Martin and more writing, some plans for my future. This blog, the choice to work or not, creating pages of of pros and cons for staying or leaving my job next year. Looking forward, after stopping. for 36 hours. I didn't know this then, but in retrospect, I did exactly what I needed. I thought I was depressed, and I was. - Depression is merely the absence of expression - I obeyed the law of inertia and stopped what was powering my downward momentum: too much doing. I stopped, plain and simple. And stayed with feeling and assessing. I stepped outside of time and reason, right and wrong, and stayed there till I was ready to stand up.
simply,
balancing health, work, rest, and play. Such is the life of a public school teacher. I work 10 hours a day, spend 3 to 4 hours expending all energies towards preparation. And the pay for all of this is pitifully low.
I don't wish to merely survive or maintain. I'm doing that; it comes with the price of a humming heart, smiling cheeks, widened eyes. Inspiration. Hope. Looking forward. Enthusiasm. Excitement. Creativity. Newness. Life.
I'm not thriving, I'm TIRED. I'm holding steady, holding on, then doubting myself, worrying unnecessarily. It's normal to feel this way when overtaxed mentally, physically, energetically, spiritually, emotionally.
This has got to change.
I have been paying allegiance to timely matters, when what brings me true joy is the pursuit of what lives in eternity, away from time, place, and identity: being in nature, growing and preparing food, sharing time with loved ones, laughing, walking, moving my body, feeling subtle sensations on my skin. Meditating. I do all these things, within a schedule. Well, that just doesn't work creatively.
Success is balancing all of what matters to me. My inherent spirit and soul needs optimal health for joy. Is choosing balance freely in the course of my day too much to ask? It is something I must take a risk at choosing. The risk of displeasing others, losing my job. Leaving situations. Facing discomfort, loss of money. Old age with no cushion or health insurance. These are a few of my favorite things to worry about.
To stay the status quo or live "safely" carries the risk of abandoning wonder and creative fulfillment. My daily routine doesn't allow my natural rhythm to lead, or, creative inspiration to flow. I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THOSE. (Really?)
They are checked at the door, like weapons of destruction to the schedule I keep, (the schedule that keeps me). Implements of creation held down in my subconscious, habitually keeping me safely ensconced from the edge of endeavors unknown. This is a risk to my creative mind, my natural propensity to ponder. The absence of vitality and playful energy moving through my being is a devolution. I have hit a wall.
I have felt lately, and strongly, absences of well-being flowing through me, and an overabundance of tiredness that remains as fatigue after hours of rest. Then, judging my desires and impulses as wrong, and not acting on them, fearing future lacks of money and love, living as if I haven't time to live freely and fully. Imagine that: not having time to live. Ridiculous.
If I continue to pledge allegiance to job and approval-rating, security or expression, then I'll do just that: continue. It's very predictable...more of the same, rather than true expression and what that brings to the field. It's unknown. And scary. My sense tells me that what the way I've been operating is scarier by comparison. This extreme tiredness, giving myself to my students and my duties, till it really hurts, is harmful.
I aim to be me, whatever that looks like, and not my job. My livlihood is not supporting me. I commit to honoring my instinctual impulses to shift my body on the mat two inches, because I know that small effort yields a better feeling; to stop and gaze at the sky, however long it takes to fill my eyes with blue, to walk at my speed, taking my time, not the clock's, the school's, the principal's, or the district's. I commit to lying still, until I feel moved to get up, if at all; to eat or not eat, exercise or not, defer the shower, the invite to socialize, until I feel moved to do so. And welcome in the pain, sadness, fear, tears, petty declarations. I did all this from Saturday noon until Sunday night, and was re-calibrated to balance. I was waay off course and did not know it. I did not move for hours, lied on my back, eyes open, closed, awake, asleep. I allowed sadness and anger to come through and be heard, my stories of love-lack, youth-beauty, family-support, departed opportunities . I cried, breathed, slept, hibernated. Accepted, Allowed, Appreciated. I watched a whole season of Doc Martin on netflix and laughed. Imitated British accents. I wrote pages to myself and conversed with my spirit. I hugged my blankets and the quiet, and communed in the company of me, Me, and the NOT-ME. My sons called me, my mom, and my good friend. An acquaintance. See? I'm not really unloved.
What happened during these hours of sloth-like repose, and full abandon to the base impulse to stop living without dying? Well, I began to listen to Me and not the voices of "reason", habit and circumstance. I began feeling excitement for a future that looks like my soul. I felt well-being seep through my veins, and bits of joy rise, and lo and behold, I felt like getting up and taking a shower and getting ready for tomorrow's day. And then more Doc Martin and more writing, some plans for my future. This blog, the choice to work or not, creating pages of of pros and cons for staying or leaving my job next year. Looking forward, after stopping. for 36 hours. I didn't know this then, but in retrospect, I did exactly what I needed. I thought I was depressed, and I was. - Depression is merely the absence of expression - I obeyed the law of inertia and stopped what was powering my downward momentum: too much doing. I stopped, plain and simple. And stayed with feeling and assessing. I stepped outside of time and reason, right and wrong, and stayed there till I was ready to stand up.
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