Belonging

We all feel the almost unbearable urge to fit in somehow, to pull together the fringes of the world into place around us in the shape of family, friends, job, entertainment, clothing. We also have a sense that this is a symptom of the herd mentality and to be scorned, a shame which causes us to apply and reject the labels so frequently used: hipster, ghetto, nerd. But it is a universal necessity to belong. We seek esteem of whatever qualities in us we deem estimable--a hair cut, our ability with computers, holiness like a patched and shredded garment. Who we are often cannot stand alone. And I'm not sure it should. Fellowship is the basic emotional/spiritual need, the cry that goes deeper than Maslow's hierarchy.

See how we shift the upholstery of our souls? How this one assumes the skinny jean/shipster look and that one the pencil skirt/intelligentsia look--changing the upholstery, and sometimes the attitudes, that cover the still-beating heart and blood.

So in this sense we are shallow creatures, changeable, malleable. Ready to give up one skin for another, assuming actions, mannerisms, thought patterns like chameleons. But in another way we are sublime for this trait, for we recognize the trappings which seem to us admirable and pursue them, and our souls achieve a momentary apotheosis. It will not last, but the transformation has made us divine for a moment. It has also brought us one step closer to other souls--we have reached out of the forsaken splendor of our own souls and into the territory of another spirit.

Fellowship. The urge to belong. Part of the human condition, the splendor and the squalor.

Abstraction

What does it mean to dream?

What is a dream? Lying within and sparking to life at a single thought--this is a dream. Latent, slumbering, essential, the vision that, though unformed, seems to bring with it the path of life--this is a dream. From youth an inner hunger that cannot die, though denied and starved through a lifetime of duty--this is a dream.

It can be ambiguous or specific. It can be many-faceted or single-faced, obsessive. It can surface differently at different times of life--a painful yearning for somewhere else now and a desperate need to travel to Ireland later--but it is always within the diamond casket of your soul, burning and burning to escape and breathe, to grow and lick away at the false structure of life with its ravenous beautiful flames.

It is fire in the blood. It is night with a single star. It is the innocent breeze on your cheek. It is all this, and it is nothing. It is inescapable and easy to ignore.

What does it mean to dream?

Without a dream you are nothing. With a dream sometimes you are nothing, too, because a dream carries with it the dull knowledge that no matter how hard you strive you can never fully live it out, you will never find the perfect representation of that vision that seeks expression within your heart.

But with a dream you are everything, because you are living on all cylinders. You are striving toward something beyond, and you are choosing every moment to seek until you find. Whether your dream is travel, or education, or business, or photography, or wine, or cathedrals, or color, once you step into the cascade you join the River of Life and become truly alive for those moments. You swim in the sea of mystery. You breathe deep the air of freedom.

What does it mean to dream?

It means you never stop facing yourself with brutal honesty. You admit laziness, pain, bitterness, incompetency, and you go on. You make yourself room to fail, and you succeed. You strike out into the unknown without the assurance of salvation. You fail at explaining yourself to others but you still keep trying.

This is what it means to dream, a little.

What does it mean to you?

Endless

Endless. Horizon stretching unbearable, blues shading into greens, teals, purples--white snow sharp against misty prospect.

How did we get here, to the eagle-sight of Oregon, to the clean air that fills us like wine and sweeps through us like water? Do invisible ties bind us to the sultry heat of Missouri, where crops wither and folks take shelter? As we stand on the snow and our feet sink into the icy crystals, as we clutch each other for balance and laugh in startled delight, do our souls ascend to the heavens, since we're so much closer now?

The faces we've basked in--those behind us engaging in post-wedding revelry, those of family familiar to us in their sorrow and their joy, those of new companions of the road--fill our hearts now, papering the walls of our internal rooms with mystery. We are the product of all that has come before--we are ancient, we are infants. We dance in the freedom of life and we bend under the weight of experience.

At the summit of Mt. Hood, we pause for a family picture. Sublimity and prosaic reality intersect. Life eddies and swirls around us. We breath. We exist.

We are endless.

Companionship of the Road

We drove today for endless hours across South Dakota's wide-spread hills and plateaus, the throaty sound of motorcycles roaring by, the sky soft with dappling clouds. We hit the border during the Sturgis festival so surrounding us at all times (hemming us in, shooting amused and hostile glances at us, and alternately passing then holding us back) were tanned, tough-looking bikers. We thought of our friends who'd give a tailpipe to be here, and fretted against the traffic.

Eire has done well on this trip, riding for over 7,300 miles with aplomb. Sometimes we can just hear her saying "Boring, boring" and sometimes we hear nothing because her toys--gangly Mr. Giraffe, spiny purple Fishy-Ball, or Millie the Worm--absorb her interest. Or we hear her plopping her pacifier in and out of her perfect mouth, gnawing on her thumb, or sucking on her arm.

We fill our time with gawking at the lovely scenery--the craggy majesty of the Mission mountains, the bleak plateaus of Wyoming, the lush Columbia River Gorge, and take turns pointing out bumper stickers (like my favorite today, "Where the HELL is Wall Drug?"), dilapidated buildings, interesting people, and unique vehicles. We read out loud--or rather, I do, since Michael's driven all but fifteen minutes of the six weeks--from short stories, or poetry, or "The Picture of Dorian Grey." We listen to music ranging from Tool to Dylan to Oscar Carcamo. We share visions and dreams. We argue, and make up.

This is the companionship of the road in the McIntyre family. Living in our truck, sleeping in campgrounds and parking lots and loved ones's homes, we have made our way across the country from Missouri to the west coast and back again. Tonight, in Sioux Falls, just six hours away from home and all we hold sacred, I am filled with the crazy conflict that comes with saying goodbye to a chapter in my life and hello to the next. I will miss the quiet morning miles, the coffee kedged from shops ranging from awful to astounding, and the knowledge that anything can happen and probably will.

Tomorrow we pull into Kansas City and plunge back into life. In one way it will be as if it hever changed--the waters of life will part and close over our heads and we will be back in our accustomed places, among familiar faces. But in another way it will be different, because we are different. We have been changed subtly, in increments, by the people and the places we have met along the way, by the challenges and the comforts, by the wisdom of learning more about ourselves and each other.

I am eager and reluctant, joyful and grieved. In this paradox of life I willingly step forward. Greetings Kansas City. Goodbye everywhere else--we'll return someday, not so long from now.

Honesty

exhaustion--the other side of motherhood

It's hard to be honest sometimes--certainly with others but mostly with myself. Growing up one thing that was never tolerated was any kind of untruth, and I have always prided myself on my honesty. But as I grow older I'm learning that honesty isn't quite so easy to quantify, that there are many layers in a human heart and mind, and that just figuring out what's happening within--much less admitting it--can be excruciating and at times impossible.

The important thing to realize is that without honesty no relationship will flourish--it may appear to, but it is growth without foundation, foliage without roots. Whether it is friendship, romance, or collaboration, honesty must suffuse the relationship.

Honesty of thought, acknowledging truthfully to myself what I'm actually thinking, admitting and allowing myself to feel rage, frustration, love, appreciation, fear, confusion. Honesty of action, within the bounds of courtesy letting my movements speak truly of my inner state, without resorting to the hidden games of banging doors, manipulating, crowding, or clinging. Honesty of speech, actually saying what I mean without letting it build until it explodes the doors of my soul and decimates others, communicating as much as possible exactly what I think and not trying to couch the words in roundabout phrases that might shelter me from conflict.

I must acknowledge that while I see the importance of honesty, I often don't know how to live it.

What do you think about honesty? 

What I Wish I'd Known As a Teenager

Teen Week 2012 is a blog project hosted by body image warrior Medicinal Marzipan. Bloggers from around the world will be posting on topics related to self-esteem in teenage-hood. I'm honored to participate.





Growing up in a very conservative setting as I did, clothes were a big problem for me as a teenager. It was the late 90's, and I desperately wanted to fit in. All around me I saw stylish girls wearing tight pants, form-fitting tops, earrings, makeup, and elaborate nails. That was outside, 'in the world'. Closer to home were long loose skirts, loose tops, long hair, no makeup, and very little jewelry. These two images clashed horribly within me. The first was labeled "pretty" and "popular" in my mind and the second "holy" and "right".

What makes me sad now is that I never looked within for direction--and this wasn't only in the area of fashion. I was caught between a couple of boxes in the 'what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up' department as well. It was either 'have a career' or 'be a mom'. Neither of which appealed to me all that much, to be frank. But somehow it never occurred to me that I was unique. I had a unique style, a unique perspective, and a unique destiny. No one could tell me who I was--only I could find myself.

And so this is what I say to teenaged girls everywhere: Figure yourselves out. Don't be afraid to try different clothes on, and different accents. Read books and learn what other people outside your world are doing. Go to thrift stores or learn to sew your own clothes. Learn new hobbies, make new friends. And don't be ashamed to be different from those around you. It may cause pain--you may be rejected, you may make faux-pas, you may become horribly embarrassed. But if you can be yourself, imperfect and lovely, you will find that freedom grows around you. You'll be too big to be boxed in by a movement or a fad. You can't be labeled, you can't be ignored.

For those of us who left the teen years behind years ago, I say the same. We can only be ourselves--let's be the best we can be.

Today I'm Thankful for... Life

How easily we take for granted the life and glory in our children! There was a moment, back at the beginning of my pregnancy, when it seemed that I would miscarry, and that the new life we had just discovered would be snuffed out. Through the weeks that followed we reeled in the pain and joy of it all. I rested and nourished the budding life within.

Months later our precious daughter was born, full term, almost too healthy to be true, and she continues to boggle my mind with her growth and development. I am reminded that many parent have been less fortunate, and that life is not always a guarantee.

I am deeply thankful to look over and see my sleeping daughter breathing on the couch. And I wish to offer my heartfelt sympathy to all who have struggled with infertility, any who have had challenging pregnancies, and those who had to say goodbye to their little ones before even getting to meet them.

Cabin Fever

I'm not much of a homebody, so the past month indoors as a new mother has been rather a challenge to my emotional stability! I love our two-bedroom townhouse; it's filled with momentos of good times and gifts from loved ones, its walls are painted restful and eye-delighting colors by my talented and hardworking mother, and already we have found the home in our hearts reflected in it. I love my charming daughter, with whom I spend my days. I love my writing, Netflix, cooking (and eating), endless episodes of Deep Space Nine, lots of coffee, books, occasional cleaning, and long phone calls. But I can tell you with certainty that it's not enough for my eyes to rest upon.

I need the sky--preferably crisp and blue, with white clouds drifting across like puffy cotton balls. I need the sun to kiss my face and blind me in its radiance. I need to breathe air untainted by a furnace, full of sounds and scents which have nothing whatsoever to do with me. I need to see people in their cars like beetles on the highway, to exchange pleasantries with a friendly barista, to pace the aisles of the grocery store. I need to come home tired and ready to retreat into familiar things.

I'm realizing how much I need bigness around me. I need there to be more than myself and my surroundings. Perhaps this necessity is an integral part of human nature--why, after all, we have as an entire society never been content to imagine that life ended with our bodily death. Nor have we accepted the lack of a Beyond. We need to be small in the vastness of the universe. We need to be less than something--for that means we always have something greater to which to aspire.

My cabin fever is not just due to my extroverted nature, but also to the human necessity to acknowledge myself as part of a greater whole.

Do you get cabin fever? How do you seek to remedy it?

Yearning for Home

“If I discover within myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” -C.S. Lewis


In that shadowy moment when my heart cries for something inexpressible, for experience I cannot name, I remember that I must be yearning for home. In the sweet breath between sleeping and waking, when the edges of my consciousness fog into a greater being, I remember that I must be yearning for home. In the strange ecstasy and passion of life, when I partake of emotion far beyond me, I remember that I must be yearning for home.

The Law of Club and Fang

"The Fight", Barry Moser, illustrating The Call of the Wild

It's been years since I read The Call of the Wild, by Jack London. It held my interest now just as it did when I was twelve--who would not strain to follow the sad and descending path of that noble dog, Buck? I still gasped in horror when he was beaten by the man in the red sweater, still exalted when John Thornton saved his life, and still thrilled when he broke out and pulled for one hundred yards a sled with one thousand pounds of flour.

The impression that had remained with me was that of blood, of strife, of howling. And this time around it was confirmed. London, largely self-educated and a firm believer in the Darwinian gospel, traces Buck's progress as he loses the sheen of civilization applied by his birth in the warm Southland and connects with the atavistic power of his forebears. The book could hardly be called anything but The Call of the Wild, because in relentless, tight prose, London drives Buck toward answering that call. Buck quickly learns that mercy is seen as a form of fear, that if one loses one's footing the horde will devour one, and that man with a club is a god to be feared.

In the rough and brutal world of the Alaskan gold rush, men and dogs alike face physical and emotional challenges inconceivable to many on the Outside. Those who survive will be those who learn the laws that govern them and respect the great crashing forces of nature.

Our lives bear little resemblance to theirs, but that is perhaps part of the interest we have in reading this type of book. We cannot know whether the call of the wild would draw us or our dogs, because we've never gotten quite close enough to hear it. Through Jack London's ruthless prose, we can.

Have you contemplated the Law of Club and Fang? Any thoughts on The Call of the Wild?

Turn and Face the Strain

My husband has been singing this song by the inimitable David Bowie as we undergo our move. One verse I want to quote for you:

I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence and
So the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're going through.

Ch-ch-ch-change

I've always considered myself a change-lover, but I'm not sure where I got that misconception. The truth is, I love to think about change, to roll new ideas over in my mind, to look into the ramifications of this move or that opportunity, but when a door opens and I must go through it in my life, I suddenly think of all the things I'll miss from my old place, and find the uncertainty of the new overwhelming. Emotionally, I struggle until I find a new equilibrium.

The first box packed!

This I have had the chance to observe in myself lately, because my husband and I are moving. It's a wonderful move--lateral in space but most definitely an improvement on financial fronts--that will give us the freedom to consider more opportunities in the future. We will spend our first night in the new place on Christmas Eve.

Now I am eight months pregnant, so I am doing more directing than actual moving, and dear friends and family are volunteering their hours and muscles. We are about halfway moved, at that awkward stage where it seems that anytime we need anything it's at the other house.

The strange thing I'm realizing is that my fear of change does not make change bad! In fact, this fear should be faced and laid to rest as I root into the unchanging soil of love within and around me. If all were to change in a terrible way, I would still be loved and would still love. So let me hold to what is sure while all around me swirls, while my physical environment shifts, and while my accustomed routines are disrupted. Because I have all I need, here within me and beside me.

All I need is love. The rest is dispensible.

The Gift of Silence in Friendship

We had the gift of a good friend's presence overnight and this morning. As always, her smiling face brought answering smiles to ours, her industry in the kitchen inspired our own culinary creativity, and her determined peace exemplified the internal journey of selfhood through often overwhelming life-trials.

Usually when she comes we talk and laugh and share anecdotes of our lives, but this time I felt sulky. Even though terrified of being a bad hostess, I still could not force myself to interact much. The was, I needed to be alone. I needed to read and ponder until I had finished my current book (Villette, Charlotte Bronte). I needed time to sit and wonder over my infant's imperative elbowing me in the ribs. I needed coffee, consumed in grateful silence.

I informed my friend, with hesitation, of my feelings, and was delightfully surprised when she laughed and said she could use a good quiet reading morning herself. So we made coffee (with molasses and ginger), sat next to each other, and read! I found myself gradually opening up and by the end of the morning we had a wonderful chat before parting

A good friend is one with whom you can be silent, without offense. Thanks, D., for being such a great friend! I'd pick flowers with you any day!

Surfeit and Lack

My Thanksgiving weekend was spent basking in leisure, eating wonderful food, and relating with friends and family in several locations. It was wonderful! Highlights included an impromptu foot-stamping jam session with flute, guitar, bouzouki, and harp that resounded through my parent's old Victorian house, all the potatoes and gravy I could eat, and the manifest charms of a cat so sleepy she couldn't hold her head up.

It was lovely, but it is over--leaving me feeling sludgy from unhealthy food, sluggish from lack of exercise, and sullen from too much talking and interaction. Normally this state finds me puzzled and gradually dissipates, only to be restored around Christmas time. But this year I don't want to spend a month and a half of my life under par. So I'm taking action! Peaceful, contemplative action.

This week the McIntyre household will be avoiding sweets and meat, eating lots of veggies, and enjoying simpler meals, to counteract the excess of the weekend. I am also planning to study and read a lot, take naps and hot baths, and forswear the TV and internet in favor of making music, writing, and just sitting to contemplate this constantly-changing life. Pots of herbal tea, my harp, and my yoga mat will be my companions.

There's a balance between surfeit and lack which I want to learn. Life is a series of small moments, building upon each other to create the kind of internal and external structure we present to ourselves and the world. This week, this moment, I choose simplicity.

How are you incorporating your holiday celebrations into your own life?

The Glory of Roses in the Rain

I have a stubborn little rosebush by my front door, still blooming in the crisp death of November. Every few days it shows forth another bloom and fills my heart with joy.

May we be like stubborn roses, filling the world with fresh delight in the harshness of autumn.

Learning to Breathe

Caspar David Friedrich,
Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog (1818)

Exhaustion comes in a grey fog, cancelling impetus and outlawing momentum. The list of things to do grows longer in my mind, my emotions boil and seethe, and I find myself in tears over random occurences.

What to do?

I am learning to breathe. In, out. In, out. Long, centered breaths bringing life-giving air and calm into myself. What really matters to me?

To love and be loved. All else is nothing to me.

So I consciously lay aside my to-do list, focus on the dancing eyes of my lover, rest instead of filling my mind with the constant chatter of the world, and find a modicum of peace.

I am learning to breathe.