Between the In Between

Nervous Nellie. Today my grounding practice is feeling plaque on my teeth. I can feel it on the back of my front teeth. It is bothersome, and curiously, addictive to keep feeling over the rough surface with my tongue. It is buildup from something or other--very likely, from the science project happening in my mouth as my body heals from candida. This is why I get my teeth cleaned very often. Otherwise, I mutilate them with that sharp thing that the dentist uses. Every time I go, (well not anymore) I ask them "Should I do that?" The answer is always, "No, no. Just come here and we'll take care of it for you."

But there is something to cleaning off the gunk in your life. But I wonder...is it possible to clean things up without being aggressive and harmful? It is like the periods I've had where I decide to turn over a new leaf. When I decided I wanted my toes to look decent, I went at them like red ants on a dying insect. I mutilated the nails, cut into the skin too much, and dug down into the tender part that is meant to be left alone. That is why I pay to have them done now. I cannot be trusted with this. Too tempting. Give me anything sharp and I will re-sculpt myself into Edward Scissorhands or something like it.

So is there an in between, I wonder? Yes, in the perfect world it is called "balance." And it become this eccentricity to say things like, "I am compulsive, or obsessive, or anal retentive." Yes, that's always a good way to making your "bad traits" sound good. It looks great on a Woody Allen film. But I do not have a projector behind me. I just beam straight human, not films.

If I have a wish: it is that I would like to pay attention to my teeth without mutilating my gums. I would like to take care of my hair without either dying it every single color and switching every other month or shaving it off. (Almost a year ago, I took on look at it, and decided I was sick of dying it and shaved it all off. And I mean ALL off.) I have been "growing" it now without a cut. It is a lovely mullet-ish style, which I am hoping will turn into one of those really nice "layered" styles, once it grows. But in the meantime, I am practicing just sitting with it. I get the urge to cut it all the time. But I am leaving it. Un-dyed. Un-cut. And I have greys and I am leaving them.

So I am doing this moderating in areas of my life. But I am not really looking now at where I am moderating. This is not time for a gentle eye that lets things pass. That is like looking in the mirror and asking where things are sticking up, and just saying, "It's all fine." Without really looking. I am looking where I attack vigilantly, and wonder if it is not to give myself something to do, so I don't get too sleepy.

This being on one end of the spectrum or another leads me to believe I am not so comfortable with things right in the middle. Or maybe middle is a high level of joy, or intensity.

This post even seems middling to me. I don't like it. As much as I talk of this calm, I am very comfortable in my bursts of energy. This other place -- I do not want sometimes. It is the baby, right before they go to sleep. And sometimes, there is something scary to me about slipping off into this. I claim to want calm, but the idea of silence can be pressing. No noise, no music, no talking, no movement. I sit and do nothing. This is lovely when I am in the mood. But it is more fun, in an un-fun, guinea pig kind of way to stalk myself and notice, when I am not in the mood for silence. "What are ya' up to?" "Nothing." That is the response I don't want to feel. Like right now.

I am not up in arms about something. Not feeling really worked up. Just a kind of "enh" feeling that is not strong enough to move to anything deeper. And I am not doing anything to entertain myself, distract, make things go faster. I am not running out for a walk, or going to drink coffee or tea. I am not talking to a friend. Not preparing for work. I am just sitting here with this in-between self. Being vanilla. I can feel the urge to "do" something to change it, but I am enjoying making the "self" wait and "sit in it." Like lumpy oatmeal grown cold on the table. Practicing oatmeal is my new torture device. I must admit, it gives me pleasure to see myself squirm. Practicing oatmeal--the new Zen.

Oatmeal would have saved me lots of money on my hair. I would rather have had all that spent energy as money in the bank. Oatmeal would have saved me countless hours spent obsessing, feeling bad, calculating on what the perfect hair would get me. Oatmeal would have saved me time and energy now in setting up my life in particular ways when I was busy running my engine on high. But oatmeal is not always available. There is only now. And right now, I am enh.

JOY

I got to teach a group of special needs adults today. Notice, I said I "got" to, as though it is a privilege. There is nothing like teaching to pull me out of my head and into the moment. My entire being was focused today and giving every one of those folks the experience they deserve.

All of my being soars in to this, and focuses on bringing each person into the world. I couldn't let settle even for a minute, the possibility of a person stepping outside of the world and being alone while in the midst of my hour. So I pranced, I had them sailing off to Mexico, and climbing up mountains, and "oohing" "ahhing" and "eeeeing" with their mouths. I was shameless in every sense. Hands were tapping heads and noses and shaking in the air "making snowflakes." I had them hug themselves, clap for themselves, make a giant sun with their hands, throw imaginary cheeseburgers (I know as well as anyone, that's a way to get the attention going!) and crackers from their imaginary sailboat we were "rowing" (the imagination knows no bounds) to one another. Each person met the other with a gaze, a smile as they were "throwing" the items. A few "ate" their crackers up and we had to come up with new imaginary ones! We had magic balls, and sleds, and snowshoes.

Anything to move them into the present. And my moments were gliding along and all of "me," my "thoughts," my "opinions," were thankfully squashed under real people, moving, existing and being. I told them at the end, after having them pat their hearts, clap for themselves, give themselves a bow, to say "I did a good job." The first woman said, smiling with her big part toothless grin, "You did a good job." I took her finger and turned it around. "Say I did a good job, " I directed. She smiled and said this. Then I wheeled around the circle of 15 people or so, and asked each one this question. Some barely able to speak, some getting their words out in broken speech--no matter. Each one beamed and pumped out a word, or the phrase. One just said "JOB." But he did so with emphasis, with heart, and gusto.

This is life.

My lovely tapeworm...HABIT

Who knew that feelings were so "feeling." It's not as if I have ever been a muted, withdrawn person. But what it feels like now, is that I had my inner sense of what I liked, disliked, needed, folded up like an oregami paper. And then the outside part, had to just wave wildly, grasping at things.

Feelings are busy, I am finding. And it is interesting that I am not "done." Just because I notice this, my assignments are not completed. The old habit is very persistent. It is like a lovely little worm parasite that you can get from raw fish. (people tell me all the time I will get sick from eating meat raw at times. I tell them I am already sick. Tapeworms are the least of my concern.) This tapeworm of habit wants to hold you, embrace you, and sing Carole King songs to you while it lives off your body.

So I have to be a very avid watcher of my old tricks popping up. Cut out sugar, and suddenly want loads of eggs. Cut out eggs and want bacon. Soak the bacon to "get rid of" the bad stuff on it, and want EVEN MORE bacon. Want sex. MOre. And then more work. More of anything to replace a feeling floating around. Trying anything to avoid the feeling. The lovely little tapeworm. Habit persists and will do anything to get more oxygen and avoid being suffocated.

My vigilance to this cycle, is like instilling my own detective agency inside me. What is the advantage to all this? YOU might think this is a hassle. Poor, sick person. Yup, that's me. But the advantage, is that I get to do what I want. I get to move forward in my pursuits. I get to pour words out on the page, b/c I am not stuffing away the desire, the thoughts, the notions through a habit that keeps me from being alive.

When I don't avoid feelings, with a habit (that can only cover lamely), then I have opportunity for change. And as I am a hedonist, change is very stimulating for me because it is "something new." It wakes me up. If I take on whatever I feel like, regardless of whether it is like last night (my class I went to for the first time that had NO ONE there), I am living.

I want to live. My tapeworm the habit, can go straight to hell.

Hide UNSIGHTLY wrinkles...

I have had several people comment (friends) that "you are so revealing about things..." There is this tone of warning. It made me stop each time and see if I "did something wrong." It was like someone said, "Hey, you have underwear on your head!"

Are you sure you want to reveal all that? This is the implication of that comment. Politicians are always getting in trouble for tying their shoelaces the wrong way, stepping into the closet with so and so, etc. But I figure it like this: I have had sex in my life, I have pimples, and I even have a fungus on my toe. I just polished them today, after going on a "polish diet" in the hopes that the toe would become glowingly healthy.

So what is the difference? When am I hiding, and when does it feel right to expose? Hiding the fact that I eat to replace feelings does not seem well worth hiding. Just makes me want to eat. But the toes were staring at me every time I taught, and looked down at them. Seeing what others might see. So, I was inspired to polish the toes (I did not do it. I am hopeless in all beauty pursuits. If smearing meat grease on your face was one, then I would be an expert.) because I am tired of looking at my sad, sad toe. It is the big toe on my right foot. I know how it got there. All the lovely piles of sugar I shoved in my face. I am sure you could argue it was something else, but this is my belief.

Anyway, today I decided that staring at my toes, when I am teaching, makes me feel bad. It is not like I am trying to stretch my forty-year-old face into a different, prettier mask that doesn't move. I don't like those creepy eyebrows that arch permanently with face freezing. I'll take my wrinkles, thank you. But the toes bother me. I decided today, that it makes my very childish heart happy, to stare at polish on them. (toes) I look down, and the color smiles up at me.

I am not against people freezing their faces, removing or adding things to their bodies. But this is not my idea of fun. I do not like being waxed, plucked at, dyed, or any of the above. It is not for moral reasons. I am not a nature girl. I like my body being left intact. The more people fuss, the more anxious I become and the more I start looking. I prefer not to be bothered.

But the toes were a delight. I went to a place nearby. I felt very proud of myself, because I realized I had shame around this toenail. It was my scarlet "A." If you are so disgusting to have made yourself get a fungus, I had thought, then you deserve to have it paraded around. Today I thought: this is NOT right thinking.

But I wasn't finished liberating. Because when the woman was done, I squinted at the toes. Squinted some more. It looked spotty, shoddy, half done. And I am hardly fussy about grooming. The color looked sheer-ish, even though it wasn't. Instead of a soft beigey pink, it looked dingey. You could see bits of toe underneath. And my first reaction: Oh, just leave it. That's what you get. Then....an alarm bell went off. YOU ARE STILL IN SHAME. STILL PUNISHING YOURSELF. So you get polish, but not a nice looking job. An almost but not. Very Woody Allen.

I told them politely, apologizing, and pointed. Three Chinese ladies conferred among themselves. I imagined something like the Seinfeld episdoe where they are speaking about (in the nail shop) what a jerk Elaine is. I continued to say, I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but it doesn't look nice.

I told the woman who did it, in my own new age nail mantra, "It's not you. It's my toes."

Everybody smiled. Everybody was happy. I got a fourth coat of polish. And now my toes look pretty.

(Singing:) Do your boobs hang low...(can you toss them to and fro) etc. etc.

So when I was taking off my sweaty sports bra, and putting on a new less sweaty one for class, I noticed. Right breast hangs slightly lower than the left. I hadn't noticed before. I turned to the side. Hmm. Maybe right is larger. I get turned around, mind you, looking in the mirror. With right and left. Always an issue for me. Don't even get me started on north, south, east and west. AND I still tie in bunny ears. I asked all my senior ladies in my sit and be fit class, if any of them tie their shoes in bunny ears. They laughed and there was a resounding "no."

So back to boobs. I looked and noticed. Then stared at my tongue to check for sludge. I call it my "We are still not getting any sugar" sludge. My body is still doing some sort of detoxification. Frankly, the tongue was more fascinating than the breasts.

And after I thought about it, I thought about how I didn't think about it. I also noticed some new strange splotch on my face (my skin is prone to getting all sorts of spots on it--not pimples. spots.) and I looked at this too, like, Clint Eastwood. "What you lookin' at!"

I glared back at the boob, and the spot, and various rashes I noticed elsewhere on my less than perfect skin, and dared it to make a peep. Nothing. Then I happily put on my clean sports bra.

I am happy that life is bringing me to the point where I do not care if my right boob hangs low. Where else does it have to go?

My Mistress wakes me in the night

The day I grew ugly my words grew strong. My cheek grew plain and they lifted and swelled and raised so high I could not see. They moved beyond I could not hear. And as the years felled me, the words defy this master Time, and they are buoyant. They lift out of the shell, that could crumble at the wrong touch, a bump in the night, and a shock of grey, and they haunt me with verdure.

They are light and incandescent as my skin fades. And they breathe meaning and order into each letter that forms their pleasure as my own breath stumbles beneath my chest. There is life beyond life, in these words. Life beyond death that not "may," but "will."

And where are you, you say? I am waiting for the order, mistress to my master of words. They suck their fill from me, without a worry as to when. Though I am in the midst of a mid-night's sleep, they will be heard. They point and gesture from inside the dreams of sleep and knock on my brain until I am wakened and my fingers itch.

The words breathe and grow stronger as I fail. And they will be the death of me, but will leave me with one last sentence before I roll over and lie down. One last letter will hurl itself out of me, Herculean in it's effort, before I go quiet. My mistress, master of the letters, will be heard.

BREATHE You are here

There is something to feeling. Vipassana meditation teaches observation of sensations. This started as something to do because I had never done it before. This is often incentive for me. I think I am a hedonist by nature and new experiences offer me the desired jolt. But then this observation became a part of me like a nose on a face. (Except in stories by Gogol.) That is why it is so interesting that there is no turning back from seeking my essential joy in life, in a deeper capacity, now that food no longer exists as that constant buffer.

I notice all sorts of things since I started feeling deeper. I feel pain, and hurt and longing more intensely in my body. It is not that situations seem bigger, or that I am more in tune. It is that I feel them. Along with this, is what I am feeling this morning. There is an inscrutable joy, and a thrill that I am in the midst of something marvelous. But there is no particular explanation other than the completion of my long neglected shaving of my legs. It was like magic to watch the hairs slide off my leg while the razor cleared the field of skin to smoothness. There, and then not there. Like magic.

This joy. It is nothing specific. But everything around me has this presence to it, as though all is layered in golddust. I feel pleasure over the sensation of cold from the chill in the room on my bare arms and the goosebumps forming on my arms. I feel the urge to squeeze down into my heart to resist the cold and breathe in little gasps and instead, keep my heart open. And there is the possibility of resolving all this by simply putting on a sweater. But I want it there. It makes me feel my body.

I want the feeling. I want to feel. I want to feel my tailbone underneath me as I sit propped with hips above knees on one rolled mat on top of another. To feel the weight of me beneath me is somehow pleasurable. And there is music, a cd I bought, that is floating in my ears and serenading my fingers, who respond by typing faster and faster on the keys. All of the emotion and feeling has to fall out, leap out of me. This is what feeling is all about.