Minister to me


To borrow an expression from my religious friends–

This tune “ministered to me” this morning.

Without needing to know why.

And it was a sweet surprise.

I’d never heard this song before.

It was the first one to play when I unplugged from the news and asked Alexa to stream me some Krishna Das.

I  asked her to play it again and again.

It opens with a freaky kind of sound, throat singers, I suppose.
An intuitive once told me that I had been one. Famous.
I suppose I was a guy then too.

I was attached to Krishna Das once.
Literally.
For a few moments when I was assisting Robert Thurman at Kripalu.

Neither of them noticed that this petite silver-haired woman with a head set in her hands was wired to their long embrace and conversation.

Finally, I tucked the receiver under Bob’s elbow and slipped away to the floor while these two socked feet giants communed.

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We all began at the sea…

Donald Saaf, Hillside Shadows, 2015, mixed media on canvas, 36″h x 46″w

44 dayz to Menopause: I climbed a tall, tall ladder, and stood on the very top where the warning says not to stand, and looked out over the land–toward the grassy marsh near South Pond (but it wasn’t really South Pond) where I saw 3 brothers from town proceed in order of age, but all younger than they are now, and I thought, isn’t this a little risky of them, and also, isn’t that cool; and just then a fox approached from the other end of the marsh, and scampered up the ladder toward me, and I was disappointed that I had to focus on my balance instead of the gift of its proximity, and didn’t he join me at the very top, where both my anxiety about falling and my delight in his company were heightened just as he left my perch almost as quickly as he arrived, and scampered back down and disappeared into the marsh from whence he came.

~

47 dayz: My dreams continue to be filled with babies & animals–skunk, racoon, bobcat, fox, puppy. This morning I wake at dawn, rested & energized–an anomaly at this hormonal juncture–as is an overwhelming sense of satisfaction & fulfillment. I’ve just birthed a baby, breech, thin legs dangling from my yoni, my youngest son beside me, as midwife/doula, while simultaneously I film the delivery, my husband looking on just behind me. The baby is a girl, and I snap some still shots to send off to my older son, who in reality is not away at college, but sleeping in his bed this weekend, and who himself was breech, but born not at home as planned, but by emergency caesarean. The baby transforms as I photograph her, sprouting a shock of bright blonde hair, that flips up and then side to side, as if animated, suddenly looking just like a younger sister of mine.

~

48 dayz: We all put such pressure on each other. To be something/do something/feel something other than what is. Pressure. Pressure. Pressure. What if we lived a single day or an hour or an entire moment without it? Without wishing or wanting or demanding something else. I could go first. I could begin with Trump. Or myself
*
Afraid to rest. To release. To be caught unready?
By what?
My father?
Death?
The teacher.
The prison guard.
Our fellow inmates.
The Holocaust.
The Massacre.
The Trickster who slips behind our happy distraction.

~

50 dayz: “Mom, why do you keep running away from us,” my son asks, about the way I take off to Maine every week or so.

“I’m not running away,” I say, “I’m returning–to the Mother. I need a mother as I surrender the Motherhood archetype. And I was born at the sea so that’s where I find her.”

“That makes sense,” he says, shifting from fear to science: “We all began in the sea.”

A Thousand Voices – Donald Saaf – 2011
36 x 40 inches Acrylic, collaged paper and textiles on panel

Autumn Journey for Women

Journey with the Chakras

Women’s circles evoke a sense of sisterhood,
and also a feeling of being in a maternal space.
There is a deep sense of being connected to one another, at an archetypal level.

~Jean Shinoda Bolen

cropped-andy-goldsworthy.jpg

Gather online with kindred spirits drawn to the practice of turning in, and seeing what comes, and allowing that to be, and holding compassion for oneself and others in an increasingly rich and connected online journey through the body’s energy centers, letting them speak into our lives–past, present and future.

Find out more from past participants.

Timing:

Circle opens: The week of October 30 with the dark of the New Moon when the veil between the worlds is thin.

Circle completes: The week of December 18 with the light of the Full Moon as we approach Winter Solstice/Longest Night.

Participation:

Flexible: You agree to read, write and respond each week to the…

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-55 Days, Countdown to Menopause

This past summer I began mentally (and then Facebook) cataloguing the progress of night heat:

In addition to the fox den off my studio door & promising strides with my work of memoir (strides may be too promising a word), this summer has featured new & ever surprising releases–elegantly exploring my body–like a steamroller…

1. between the breasts
2. behind the knees
3. crook of the arms
4. spine
5. inner thighs
6. lower back
7. third eye
8. wrists
9. buttocks
10. temples
11. earlobes
12. shoulder blades
13. cheeks
14. forehead
15. upper lip
16…

What is Pi/Pie?

~Life is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be lived.”

Long before digital clocks attracted attention to and affection for numbers, like 1:11, the Salasin family from which I come was enthralled by them, and not only the bankers and the accountants among us.

Family homes were often referred to numerically, most notably: 6012, but also 1811 & 747.

And even the ministers & scientists among us, marveled at numerical synchronicities:

~How the home at 6012 Pacific, for example, was exchanged for the home at 6201 Park.

~How the beloved Patriarch died and was born on November 17 in 1991 and 1919.

~How the wedding shower for the Matriarch’s namesake–a date which was exceedingly difficult to pin down among a half-dozen bridesmaids from different parts of the country–landed, unbeknownst to any of us, on the anniversary of the accident that took the Matriarch’s life.

This numerically-steeped DNA may explain why my enthusiasm for numbers is rarely matched:

“69 days separate me from Menopause! On the 296th day of my cycle! With my menses 269 days late!”

“My husband and I were both born on the 8th of the month, and that we delivered our first (& second) son in the 8th month of the year, and each of our birth dates is celebrated as a holy day in celebration of the Mother of God–her Immaculate Conception, her Feast Day & her Assumption.”

Throughout childhood, the number 8 was my favorite, while 3 has been my favorite ever since. (That’s all I’ll say about that. I can tell no one is interested.)

Despite this absorption with dates and numerals and time, I’ve always (and increasingly) been better fed by language. While my early adult years were often spent in the role of treasurer or bookkeeper, I now spend my time almost exclusively with words (just ask my bank account.)

Family finances aside, what is even more alarming is the assault I felt on the eve of my 69th day before Menopause when presented with an algebra problem.

Like a donkey, my brain refused, and so I slid the paper away, until I looked up to see all the other mothers earnestly engaged.

I reminded myself that a decade earlier I had been one of two parents to solve the algebra problem at my older son’s back to school night.

But on this 69th day before Menopause, even with assistance from another parent and then the classroom teacher (how embarrassing!), the mathematical drawer in my brain remained stuck.

There is a magic to numbers and to words that I don’t fully understand and don’t know that I ever will, but I’m being invited to deepen the inquiry.

Which explains the mystery of this piece of writing to me, but probably not to you.

I frequently find myself engaged in mysteries–an inexplicable lifetime practice of doodling the letters of the alphabet for instance.

And since the age of 16, there has been a single word that remains my favorite, a reverence which is often mistook for a mathematical or culinary interest, but which actually springs from the pleasure derived from the simple sensation of the sounds at the front of my mouth.

~

A week has passed since I posted this exploratory piece of writing on Facebook, and now it is the first day of Autumn and Day 303 in my cycle.

I love 3’s, Remember?

And it turns out that the last day of my cycle, should I continue toward Menopause, without a setback, will be November 23, 2017.

Thanksgiving Day.

My last day,

of Motherhood.

You can’t make this stuff up.

(ps. Pumpkin-pecan is my current favorite.)

Cleavage.

I choose my most revealing top for a spontaneous drive to sea, not because I want to reveal, but because–skin, air, a September return of summer and something else–something feminine–not soft or attracting–but essential–FULL–surrendered–MINE.

At 53, I can expose my cleavage, and not because it’s in fashion, though that helps, but because: What does it matter?

My softening, descending breasts no longer belong to a man’s gaze or a babe’s mouth.

And still, as I load my car, passing in and out of my mudroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and mutter out loud, something I’ve never heard said (or thought?) by me before:

“Slut.”

I’m struck by this assault.

“Wait, what did you say?” I ask. “Don’t say that.”

But I’m equally intrigued.
Where has this thought been hiding?
How long has it held me back?
Defined me?
Defiled me?

(And yes, I realize that not only am I talking to myself, but arbitratrating between selves, as if there are 3 of me. So what. I am large. I contain multitudes.)

It was an early August wedding (just before the respiratory virus from hell) when I photographed my nieces’ cleavage. I asked first.

“Why?” they said.

“Because of beauty and light and flesh.”

Budding. Ripening. Surrendering.
Maiden. Mother. Crone.
Defining. Life-giving. Fulfilling.

 

I consider changing my top.
(I don’t.)

Breasts are brilliantly placed.
Over the lungs.
And the heart.

My heart has been broken this year.
By this Nation.
By the election of a man who defiles my gender.
Grabs body parts like my junior high classmates at West Point Elementary in the dark halls circling the USMA Academy Football Stadium.
As if we belong. To them.
As if the whole point of us, was their. Pleasure.
As if men can’t bear for women to be both beautiful and sovereign.

I photograph my nieces’ breasts because it is clear–their breasts belong to them.

That’s why I go to the Sea.
That’s why I expose my Cleavage.
That’s why I take the remaining seat on the bench at the top of the beach.
A man on the other end. Decades younger.
A handful of his companions on the next bench–loud, and taking up space, in the way men are always free to do.

I take out a book and read.
A chapter later, the men rise to leave, and I look up to see them pile into a large van.
Work release?
Were they dressed the same?

My mind re-imagines the bench scene:

“You don’t want to sit here,” he says. “I’m a criminal.”

“Are you?” I respond. “I’m 53, on the brink of menopause. I could be a criminal at any moment.”

I’m struck by how often I say  or think “53” to myself, as if it is a thing, this random number, defining nothing in its ambiguity, but somehow something, a year in which I have been radically reshaped from the inside–blood being held instead of released–while polite society dismisses the transformation as nothing, as loss, as problematic.

“Anger,” a male friend said to me. “Is a problem.”

I think anger is appropriate, I say, Useful, instructive. (I’ve only just begun to befriend anger.)

“We don’t have control when we give into anger,” he says.

“Ah,” I say. And then I launch into all the ways that women have to live without control. In the home or the office or the White House. In anticipation of menses, never knowing when we’ll bleed or how inconvenienced we’ll be. The possibility of pregnancy, the radical transformation of body and self, labor and delivery, not to mention–nursing, mothering and letting go–all capped by Menopause. A journey, not of control, but of surrender, again and again.

I remember sitting with my sister at her long wooden kitchen table, our views at opposite ends. Abortion was the topic. Evangelical her lens. Autonomy mine. Both of us loved our babies, those lost or given up, those hanging by our sides. Without changing our minds, without trying to change each other, we hold hands, across the divide, of what it is to be a woman, to be a mother. We weep. Together.

“It is this tender heart that has the power to transform the world,” writes Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, a man who must know surrender.

I am writing this piece in a cafe, and like the father of the toddler at the table beside me, I have to remind myself, again and again, I may not shout, even as a shout threatens to explode like a thunder clap:

Turn off this fucking music!
Everyone shut up! I can’t hear my voice.
Open the windows. It’s too stuffy in here!

(I may have been too harsh with my family this morning.)

I’ve spent the past year angry and heartbroken and surrendered. Every year has its companion. Mine was a recommendation from my first born: Jack Kornfield’s, The Art of Forgiveness, Lovingkindness, and Peace. I’ve just finished it. (I think I’ll start again from the beginning.)

It’s taken decades to give up the power that my appearance held, while slowly and all at once claiming the sovereignty of irrelevance.

Of belonging.

To me.

Because a heart broken,

Expands.

~

(Related post: I’m Leaving.)