Posted by: scintillatingspeck | November 15, 2016

Compulsory monogamy vs. Love.

I’ve been struggling with what to write about.  A lot of the topics that feel important to me somehow seem frivolous right now, when so many people are in a state of profound distress over the recent elections here in the United States.  I’m very emotionally spongy, people.  My inclination is to soothe, to fix (if possible), to listen, to gather up my loves, to gravitate to the most current source of wounding and attend to it.  Other than addressing a few individuals who are close to me, though, I’m not convinced that my inclination is wise to follow, in this instance.  What the hell can I actually soothe or fix, here?  What can I say that wouldn’t just add noise?

That said, I think I will focus on a topic that I’ve been mulling over, even if it doesn’t seem immediately relevant to a lot of people.

On Sunday night I went to the monthly discussion group for Western Mass. Poly People in Northampton (a Meetup group) and, as usual, we had a thought-provoking discussion that ranged hither and yon.  One thing that came up was whether polyamory was inherently superior to monogamy.  I tend to take the position of hell no, because I feel so strongly about respecting individual choice on relational matters, but had some useful push-back from another person who felt hell yes.  This kind of surprised me.  I asked, “So you think that all people who choose monogamy are just deluded?”  “Yup.”  This blanket statement still didn’t entirely fly with me, but I realized that what actually forged the common ground between us was a strong resistance to compulsory monogamy, that is, the cultural idea that monogamy is the only true path, along with its associated implications.

It seemed to make a difference, when I was clarifying my position, to draw a stark line between compulsory monogamy vs. deliberately-chosen monogamy by those who have considered a range of relational configurations.  Compulsory monogamy is a monolithic assumption that sits like a giant ogre in the middle of the room, any room.  It’s about control.  It’s about viewing relationships as ownership.  It’s about dominance and status.  It’s tightly bound up with archaic views of marriage, contracts, property, the subjugation of women—yes, all the beliefs and institutions that support patriarchy, and capitalism, and power-over rather than mutual support.  Compulsory monogamy says, “I will be the water that you swim in and can’t see, shaping what you think your ‘true’ nature is, defining the terms of what you consider ‘natural’ and ‘right.’ ”  How convenient, in a power-over dynamic, to convince the underlings that we want our current set of cultural arrangements.  How convenient, and even violent, to frame any variety of non-monogamy as an absolute breach of morality, rather than to closely examine the foundations of what constitutes practicing relationships with integrity:  honesty, consent, transparency, a commitment to communication, allowing each other autonomy, accepting responsibility.  When you don’t even know that there are ethical alternatives to monogamy, stepping off the prescribed path is dangerous or downright unthinkable.

Meanwhile, the construct of compulsory monogamy puts the onus of proving integrity on those who are outliers, and dissuades us from questioning whether compulsory monogamy itself is unethical.  I would argue that, yes, these mutually-reinforcing cultural assumptions (compulsory monogamy, ownership, hierarchy, dominance, playing out in every corner of our relational lives, at home, among friends, at work, in private, in public) are unethical.  Dictating the shape of our relational lives is not a loving act.  Setting limits on who we are “allowed” to love is fundamentally anti-love.  Love is not a force amenable to external control, and to pretend otherwise is disingenuous at best.

This is not to say that I consider the deliberate choice of monogamy, for any given individual, is unethical—I will staunchly defend those who, after careful discernment, feel that this relational practice is what works for them and suits their heart.  Think of the alternative—compulsory polyamory.  It sounds ridiculous, no?  Why should compulsory monogamy be any less ridiculous, among consenting adults?

It’s still a political post, isn’t it.  So be it.  I will raise my voice against the powers of thuggish dominance until the bitter end.

May we be free to follow our own hearts.  May we relate to others in the ways that feel most supportive, uplifting, inspiring, and true.  May we keep dismantling the prevailing ‘wisdom’ that only dictates the size and shape of the walls we build.  May we smash citadels in favor of inhabiting our innate, untamed landscapes.

Posted by: scintillatingspeck | November 6, 2016

Tribe. Or, Why We’re Moving, Take Two.

It feels important to not totally lose momentum on writing about why we’re moving.

Obviously, we would not be moving if we were completely content and all our needs were met here, in western Massachusetts.  Truth be told, I think Tom’s needs are pretty well satisfied right now, but that doesn’t mean mine are or that Lily’s are.  Let it be known that as a family, despite the fact that Tom and I don’t have all the traits of a conventional “couple,” we are entirely united in sharing the value that the needs of each (mine, Tom’s, Lily’s) are important and that our decision-making is guided by looking out for our collective welfare.  We are devoted to one another.

What is the impetus for our relocation?  Am I hoping for a geographic cure of some sort?

I’ve been wary, in fact.  I have been thinking about moving for years.  I have questioned my motives, questioned whether I’m succumbing to escapism, questioned whether this will actually bring the benefits I hope it will.  The reality is that there are no guarantees that moving will address our issues, in whole or in part.

What it boils down to, what it has always boiled down to for at least the past 20 years of my life, is tribe.

Lily and I need to be among people who will be a regular part of our lives.  In person.  Doing the things that matter to us—learning, cooking and eating good food, hiking, foraging, gardening, making art, writing, breathing in the magic of the woods, playing, loving, speaking out and taking action against injustice, defining “success” and “a good life” on our own terms, resisting the imperialist narrative that would have us all shuffle off to hierarchical institutions (most schools, most workplaces, etc.) to have our feral dreams warped beyond recognition.

I know there are good people who are part of our tribe here in New England, too.   I have witnessed their hearts, their efforts.  But it doesn’t translate to our tribespeople being generally around.  And it turns out having people around, on a regular basis, in person, with whom we can connect in a substantial way, really matters.

There are barriers to this.  I would say a substantial barrier is that a large majority of people are enmeshed in conventional life, held hostage to economic necessity that convinces them that the only way to live is by children going to school and adults going to a conventional workplace.  It is inconceivable, for most people, to reject large parts of that way of living.  But reject it we have.  (With the exception of Tom, I would say.   But I don’t desire to speak for him, only to say that I respect his choices as well as his support.  I still very much love my convention-enmeshed people.)

Of the various communities to which we have a natural affinity, the most foundational, for me and Lily, is the homeschooling/unschooling community (if it can be called a “community”).  The reality is, since we are unschoolers, these are the folks we are most likely to connect with on a regular basis.

I feel encouraged by what I’ve witnessed thus far, having investigated some of the connection possibilities in a certain radius around Minneapolis/St. Paul.  There are a whole bunch of organized homeschool groups.  There are free and low-cost ways to connect with others.  There is a critical mass of other homeschoolers/unschoolers.  This is a HUGELY BIG DEAL for me and Lily.  One of my frustrations in this region is that it seems like a large number of homeschoolers that we know organize their activities around paid classes for homeschoolers and have really full schedules.  This has become a significant barrier for us, since our budget will only allow for so much participation in paid classes.  Also, we’re not seeking a packed-schedule kind of life, and it’s daunting to even try to wedge ourselves into someone else’s schedule, if they’re even interested in the same things we are (and homeschoolers have quite diverse interests and needs).  As Lily would say, we are really DIY. 

It feels like there are some significant differences in regional culture, as well, which could influence our chances to have more social interaction.  New Englanders are not exactly famous for friendliness.  Add to that the phenomenon of being oriented around achievement, competition, and conventional notions of “success”—which seems to be somewhat heightened in urban areas on the East Coast, and granted, western Mass. is already marginally more relaxed than, say, Boston, but it’s not, you know, relaxed.  And then there is the upper Midwest, which by comparison feels very friendly and neighborly.  Yes, I have already been warned about the phenomenon known as “Minnesota Nice,” but c’mon, people—I will take “nice”!  I don’t expect that everyone is going to be our closest friend.   It will take time to get to know folks, but we will have opportunities to find more people who have some room in their lives for us.  And being around people who are mostly friendly goes a long way towards easing my customary social anxiety.

Speaking of closest friends, it’s not coincidental that some of ours happen to live in northwest Wisconsin, and the prospect of being closer to them is also a draw.  We’re not expecting them to meet all our social needs, but the idea of being able to be in their presence more than once a year is heartening.

Being in the orbit of the Twin Cities is important also in terms of good job opportunities for Tom.  The Cities also seem to have quite a bit to offer in terms of performance arts and visual arts, things of great interest to Lily (and me), as well as affinity/support groups for social justice, environmental justice, polyamory, and bisexuality.  Granted, we are pretty clear that we don’t want to live right in the city (being country folk at heart), but it seems like a place where a balance can be struck between helping Tom have decent proximity to a job, having my dwelling and Tom’s not be too far apart (unless we opt for a duplex? we don’t know yet), and settling into a place away from too much noise, development, and urbanity.

As if the pragmatic considerations weren’t enough, there is also the fact that I simply feel called there.  I do.  It’s not explainable.  Before 2013, I had never even set foot anywhere in the Great Lakes region.  And once I started traveling there, I couldn’t stop.  I remember the day that Lily and I first laid eyes on Lake Superior in 2015 and experienced its undeniable, majestic lure.  Maybe it was the small stone from its shores that I put in my medicine pouch that wants to return home.

on the shore of Lake Superior

on the shore of Lake Superior

A while back, while soliciting ideas for things to write about on this blog, a friend wrote to me on Facebook: “Why don’t you write about why you decided to move?”

This stopped me in my tracks.  The main thing that was stopping me was the public nature of this blog, and the desire of my partner, Tom, to not have our plans to move be widely known.  He is not content with the decision to relocate, seeing as it will involve change and upheaval and the necessity for him to seek new employment, and he is quite content with his life as it is, here in the Pioneer Valley of western Massachusetts.  He does recognize, however, how imperative this move is for me and Lily.  (I should note for the uninitiated that although Tom and I don’t share living quarters, we are nonetheless partners, we are married, we are devotedly parenting the same child, and we are in complete agreement that we will not live far away from each other.)  He has requested time to absorb the impact of this shift and time to break the news to his mom.

The problem with him needing time to share such news is that asking me to be silent has a big impact on me and my need to write transparently about my own life.  And I am realizing that every time people want me to keep secrets about my life, because it involves them in some way, it takes an enormous toll on my spirit.  I want to be able to celebrate certain things, even if other people don’t.  I want to be freely happy about moving, even if Tom isn’t.  I want to be able to voice my enthusiasms, fears, and ambivalence out loud, i.e., in writing, because this is so much a part of how I come to terms with my life.  (I hasten to add that I’m not forcing Tom to move.  Neither of us ever wants to be in the position of forcing the other.  We were in a very difficult space for a while, when it was clear that we were at a stalemate about moving; we did our best to account for the ultimate needs of the three of us as a whole.)

Everything I just wrote was a fierce challenge to write, because the truth is I don’t want my allegiance divided, and I want to live with integrity.  I love Tom.  I don’t want to wound him or make him feel threatened.  I’m not sure anyone outside of our relationship understands what we mean to each other.  I know it’s hard for him when I write about him and would probably prefer I left him out of my writings entirely.  How am I supposed to write about myself and my life when people who are vastly important to me don’t want to be mentioned?  Maybe for some people it would be easy enough to shrug and be silent and accommodate the needs of everyone else instead of their own.  All that comes up for me is “Silence = Death” (the slogan about AIDS).  That sounds dramatic, I suppose, but for me?  It’s true.  Silence equals death.  I’m not ready to die just yet, and certainly not by silence.  I don’t think my loved ones who request my silence are trying to kill me, mind you.  I think they are simply afraid.  I think they are not fully aware of the price I have to pay, and that I’m broke now—that energy in hiding things needs to go elsewhere.

I guess none of this explains why we’re moving to Minnesota/Wisconsin, but it must be what I needed to write about.


So why are we moving, and why do I keep referencing two states rather than just picking one?

The pragmatic answer has to do with getting needs met, particularly mine and Lily’s.  Simply put, I think we have a better chance at getting our needs for community/tribe and regular human interaction met by moving to the area around Minneapolis/St. Paul.  This was not an arbitrary choice; there are many other factors that came into consideration, and a bunch of other locations that were investigated.  I have been thinking about this and weighing factors for years.

The reason I say Minnesota/Wisconsin is that although we are centering our sights on proximity to the Twin Cities, I think it’s likely that we’ll choose to live just over the border in Wisconsin.  We are planning to move in the spring.

Loves, it appears I will have to return to this topic when I have more time to write.

dscn6422

 

Posted by: scintillatingspeck | September 30, 2016

Selfish Mama.

I asked yesterday on Facebook, “What can I write a blog post about?” and a few people responded. The consensus seemed to be: write about my daughter Lily and her art, and write about mothering.

This brought up a pang in me, or maybe several. Or, let’s face it, a whole tangle of emotions. Enough to write about, in fact.

First, there is the whole question of what is the blog for? Is it to respond to the desires of my readers? (I don’t fault my friends for genuinely responding to my question, mind you. I am questioning whether I should have asked in the first place, or whether I should have modified the question.) Is it to examine and tangle and untangle the thoughts and emotions that move through me, sometimes fluttering, sometimes blasting? Is it to serve me? Is it to serve others? Is it to become a better person or a better mother?

I think if I can answer what the blog is for, it might help me respond to the inquiries about Lily and mothering, and why it feels challenging to me. Because I do think the central purpose of this blog, for me, is about meeting my own emotional/creative needs and being witnessed. I don’t think it takes away the other needs that can be met, the needs of readers who want their curiosity satisfied, or want to see their own thoughts and emotions mirrored, or feel challenged by someone who might think/feel differently. But the primary purpose? Let’s call it selfish.

As anyone who’s spent time examining the current Stories about motherhood in this culture can attest (yes, Stories with a ponderous, capital S, with a punishing weight), a prevailing Story is that of the Selfish Mother and how evil she is. She can be selfish for just about any reason. It hardly matters what choices she makes, in fact—those choices can always be framed in the context of selfishness. She goes to work? She stays home? She thinks about her own needs or the needs of others besides her children? She dares to not fade into the background like a ghost? She requests to be heard and seen? Heresy, I tell you. Any mother who has needs and insists that those needs are important is a heretic.

I don’t believe that when my friends asked to hear more about Lily or my thoughts on mothering that they intended to provoke this particular line of thought, but it’s what comes up for me.   (Yes, friends, I see your good intentions, and I know your hearts—I know you don’t want to elicit a painful rush of feeling in me.) I think when I asked “What can I write a blog post about?” I was in part asking, “What do you want to see about me? How can I connect with you? I feel far away from you. I feel unseen. I feel like my voice has been muted and I’m trying to find it again.” I realize that if I had had the wherewithal to articulate it in that way from the get-go, it would have gone differently.

When the only suggestions I received were to write about my daughter, her art, or my relationship with her, I felt pushed aside. I felt like people didn’t understand why I maintain a blog. I felt like I was being told, “You should fade away. You should showcase your child. That’s what good mothers do.”

I do showcase my child rather frequently on Facebook, I should add. And I do feel like that’s a fairly appropriate medium in which to do so. I like to post items related to Lily (with her consent): pictures of her, interesting or funny things she says, art that she’s been making. These are, invariably, far more popular (as evidenced by “likes” or comments) than anything I post about myself. I don’t want to set this up as some sort of popularity contest between me and my child, mind you, but I think it’s important to point out. I love Lily, and I love that others love and appreciate her. But it’s not that much of a stretch sometimes to feel like I should be a Lily-vessel and a Lily-facilitator to the exclusion of being myself. That message, regardless of intent, comes through.

It’s complicated further by the fact that I deeply love being Lily’s mother, and engaging fully in this most demanding role, by far, than any other I’ve ever had. I don’t intend to demean mothering. It’s sacred to me.   I do, actually, want to write about mothering and what it means to me.

But in the context of this blog? I started this blog in 2008 (about a year after Lily was born) with only the vaguest of notions of its purpose. I wanted a creative outlet. I wanted to put my own ideas Out There; I wanted to revive my long-silent writing voice; I wanted to think out loud, and artfully, if possible; I wanted witnesses. I wanted to center my own mind and heart in a place that was mostly about me and the way I see the world. I wanted my own voice to be a revolutionary force, at least for myself, and possibly for others. I wanted to make experiments in vulnerability.

I still struggle with the prescribed boundaries of what is meant to be “public” or “private.” What do I need to keep private about myself? What about people who are close to me, like Lily? How much of that privacy is for meeting our own needs, and how much of it is about not rocking the collective boat? The more Lily grows, the more aware I feel of her preferences, her desire to influence how she is perceived, as she strides into her gradually-maturing selfhood. I don’t want to foist my own preferences and needs on her. Over time, I’ve felt more and more that I need to have a public voice about supposedly “private” matters, that it’s those matters that are the most relevant and important for me to write about. My blog is public. Most things I post on Facebook are public (a decision I made over a year ago). Lily is such a huge part of my life that it would be silly not to include her in my posts, but at the same time, I feel protective of her needs, some of which she hasn’t even grown into yet. Some might even argue that Lily isn’t capable of providing full consent to my posts that include her, that she can’t possibly understand all the implications. I tend to disagree (at least in her middle childhood)—I think we are in the midst of actively learning about consent by practicing it and talking about it, so it’s a good example of learning through real life. In the meanwhile, I do avoid posting anything about her that I think she might feel embarrassed by, now or in the future, although I can’t prevent whether she might eventually feel horribly embarrassed by me being me. (Cue the chorus of parents who are nodding vigorously, wondering how they ended up with teenagers who are so mortified to be seen or associated with them.)

Back to the issue of how mothers are supposed to be invisible. Mothers are, after all, women, and among women, mothers are supremely expected to take on the role of servant, at least in this thoroughly warped and insane culture. We don’t have a culture of mothers being accorded even remotely-adequate support, respect, and love. Show me the mother who is getting all her needs met—go ahead, show me. And I said needs, not wants. Who is getting enough sleep? Who is getting enough time to herself? Who is not besieged with some variety of judgment or anxiety? The cultural beliefs that mothers should be servants, that mothers are subordinate to the needs of their children (or just about anyone else), that mothers should be largely invisible as individuals—these deny mothers their full humanity. These beliefs are deeply damaging and oppressive, and they are put forth both consciously and unconsciously from all directions.

I believe that mothers absolutely must put themselves first, if they are to live fulfilled lives AND be decent mothers to their children. There’s a saying, “If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.” There’s a reason for that. Why do you think so few people are happy? Mama ain’t happy. And that goes from the planetary scale of Mother Gaia to the very individual human scale. And if nobody is putting Mama first, then Mama should put herself first. Call me a defender for the Selfish Mama. But everything, everything flows from there. If Mama’s needs are met, she is the most generous being you ever saw, patient, kind, able to respond in spades to the needs of others, as well as able to clearly discern and communicate her boundaries. If Mama is silenced, put down, ignored, unloved, or otherwise abused in a variety of heinous ways, with her tribe scattered to the wind, her unique gifts devalued, AND expected to be an ever-giving fount of service to others? No, it doesn’t work that way.

Selfish Mama is a bit of a misnomer, if by being “selfish” we mean “more able to address the needs of others by attending to one’s own.” It’s long past time to dismantle the notion of maternal selfishness.  To quote Sylvia Plath in The Bell Jar, I don’t want simply to be “the place the arrow shoots off from” but “to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.”

May we recognize mothers, first and foremost, as human beings with their own visions, gifts, needs, and voices. This is not an issue of obscuring the needs of children, but an issue of basic respect for all people, mothers included.

May we endeavor to create and strengthen the relational web of mutual support that uplifts all of us.

photo credit: Marlowe Rafelle

photo credit: Marlowe Rafelle

Posted by: scintillatingspeck | September 29, 2016

Boundaries and stories.

It’s been too long since I last posted to this blog.

There are always a thousand and one reasons to be silent.  First are all the requests, explicit and implicit, from others, to Not Talk About Them, and by extension, not talk about my decisions, choices, and trajectories.

Then there’s the plain fact that if I’m going to write in any sort of real way about my own life, I’m going to alienate some swath of people.  I am still not hardened to those losses.  I know I can’t please everyone—I don’t want to please everyone—but the conditioning goes deep, this sense that I have failed as a human when people turn away from me, especially when I’ve tried to be honest and vulnerable.

And sometimes I turn away from others.  I try to hold myself and the others with compassion.  My Inner Wise Woman says:  Whether you turn away, or I do, let us trust that these are acts of self-care.  May we uphold the importance of boundaries.

Boundaries.  They keep coming up.  They keep whispering to me, “You need to know yourself better.  You need to be more clear.  You need to say No a whole lot more, so when you say Yes, it carries the energy of conviction.  You need deliberation, rest, and patience.  Stop overriding your own instincts.”

So much of my pilgrimage, traveling back home to myself, has been about recognizing internalized stories.  I try to unravel those narratives, to question them, to hold them in my hands and dismantle their pieces so I can decide, do I want to keep you?  do you serve the greatest good?  are you killing me?  are you molding my thoughts and behavior in ways I don’t like and haven’t been able to see?

Selves are made of stories.  I tell stories.  I live stories.  It’s what I was born to do.  I take the clay of my life and push it this way and that and say, “Look.”  I use my senses and my intuition and try to translate the staggering flow of information.  There is so much.  There is so much.  Sometimes I lapse into silence.  Sometimes I fear the stumbling of words, the choppy attempts at communication.  I was dutifully trained to be a perfectionist, and I am still taking a sledgehammer to that monolithic barrier, hoping that out of the harsh flurry of flying stone chips, there will be something comprehensible left to present.  Here I am, writing, trying to praise myself for writing anything at all, hacking hard at the cruel, implacable stone of judgment.

I want to understand boundaries, form, structure.  I don’t want to be a passive recipient of lines and definitions set up by others.  I also don’t want to dissolve into formlessness just yet.  I want to tell stories that make sense.  I want to define myself and my life in ways that make sense.  I guess this is a longing to be sensible.  And not sensible in a stodgy, gray way, but in a way that’s alive and downright magnificent.

Chalk this blog post up to “stuff Jen writes to herself that she apparently needs witnesses for, but isn’t remotely satisfied with how she’s articulating things.”

Posted by: scintillatingspeck | July 18, 2016

A New Culture epiphany.

It’s been about a day since Lily and I departed from New Culture Summer Camp East in Mt. Storm, West Virginia.  We were there about 10 days, living and breathing in community, focusing on intimacy and connection and growth.

I want to write about it.

I don’t know how to do justice to what I experienced.

Inner Wise Woman, of course, has a response to that last statement: Oh, lovey.  Go back to what you just wrote on Facebook.  Put it here.  Be messy.  Let go of the shoreline.

Okay.  Here’s what I wrote on Facebook:

At the library in Bristol, right on the very edge of the border between Virginia and Tennessee. It seems an apt place to be, in this liminal space. I’m trying to get focused enough to write a blog post about my time at New Culture, transitioning away (somewhat) from that mind-heart-body space and into “old” culture, but as Sarah reminded us during closing circle, we are in an ever-flowing river of experience. This helps me re-immerse in the current of What Is, my constant, devoted companion, this river I/you/we are in. I’m letting go of writing anything perfect in favor of the stumbling, dribbling, gushing, seeping movement/sound of my own voice.

‘Tis the gift to be simple and free.

Here is my offer to myself: to not get it right the first time.  To allow myself to circle back and keep reflecting.  To make every time I sit down to write a new beginning.  To feel the unconditional love of the Source, no matter what.

When true simplicity is gained, to bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed.  To turn, turn, will be our delight, ’til by turning, turning, we come round right.

What is my piece of this turning?  What is my current epiphany?

I was afraid to say it, at first, but I did.  I said it in a public fashion.  I took the risk of being misunderstood or ridiculed, especially by myself.

I am a goddess, I said.  And this allows me to see the divine in each of you.

Wow, does the gremlin smack her lips and prepare to eviscerate me in glee, shrieking, “Narcissist!  Egomaniac!  Who do you think you are?!  Are you now going to the woo-woo New Agey side in a fit of blind, ungrounded, irrational, bullshit bliss?  Is it all about you and your vanity?  Did witnessing the pain of the world flip you into some other totally disconnected dimension?  Have you cracked in a whole new way?”

Well, yes, actually, I have cracked in a whole new way.  And it’s not about self-absorption, although this mind-heart-body is what I have to work with.

I saw myself.  I saw myself through everyone’s eyes, and I was, I am, beautiful, in form, in ether, in relationship, as an individual, as a dissolved piece of All That Is.  I start here, with this I who is not really an I, this illusion of an I, and I feel it in my bones and fingertips and the soles of my feet, and it makes me dance.

I am a goddess, and I get to want things.  I get to take myself seriously and very, very lightly.  I get to play.  I get to create.  I get to take apart.  I get to radiate.  I get to uplift and honor the divinity in each being I encounter.  I get to contain every emotion, every thought, every sensation that has ever crossed my path.  I get to witness the passion play unfolding before my eyes.  Every bit of matter and energy that makes up Me in this form is endless, even after my human form passes.  I am endlessly changing.  I am the river that flows to the sea, and the sea itself.

This is power.  Not the power of domination and exploitation, but the power of presence, collaboration, co-creation, all art, all music, truths unveiled in their infinite shapes.  Sometimes the power is a mother, the Mother of all Mothers.  Sometimes she is utterly terrifying.  Sometimes she pulls us apart in order to reach the essence underground.

Lily's depiction of Kali on her arm

Lily’s depiction of Kali on her arm

I couldn’t tell you exactly how this coalesced for me at camp.  I think I have been preparing for this for a while, and maybe it was enough to be among people with a radical willingness to Show Up in order to facilitate such insights.  I saw myself, and I saw others, and I witnessed the shifting dance of separation and no-separation.  I get choked up with gratitude at such courage.  I know this is the spirit that moves culture.  I know this is our practice to manifest abundance, freedom, and justice in the world.

May we all know our own power and magnificence.  May we own it.  May we have others to remind us of it when we forget.

Our beauty transcends our speckish selves and fills the sky with a billion stars.

Posted by: scintillatingspeck | May 17, 2016

Breaking down hierarchies between Self and Other.

I don’t know how to classify these thoughts, these knowings that keep tumbling through me.  And not just me, this illusion of an island of me, but through those closest to me, and probably through those furthest away, too.

We could chalk this up to Relationship Anarchy, maybe?  It’s a good concept, I think, because it eludes definition, and anything too narrowly defined is just not big enough.  RA is all about dismantling hierarchies:  not privileging one person over another, not privileging romantic relationships over aromantic ones, deliberately blasting through illusions of competition and scarcity.  I was communicating with one of my loves about this, and it dawned on me: there is another hierarchy we can tackle in how we relate interpersonally, and that’s the false divide between Self and Other.

I don’t know how many times I’ve said it on this blog, in all sorts of contexts and circumstances: We are not separate.  Separation is an illusion.  This is not just talk.  This is not ethereal.  This is the truth.  It’s not just between “partners” or “friends” or whatever labels we want to apply; the very labels reinforce the notion of separateness.  We are endlessly creating meaning through language, and I think we are well-served to recognize that language is colonized.  I don’t know how to write about this without language and words keep coming up short.  I keep referring to myself as “I” or “myself” and talking about “you” and “us” and it’s not helping.  I just need to point it out.

It’s a material issue, and a spiritual one, and I suppose we could also chalk this up to some kind of continual religious epiphany, except you can see how colonized my language is even in referring to “epiphanies.”  I have to laugh.  How did I end up with this particular magnetic poetry box?  You know, where you get a bunch of words in a box with magnetized backings, and you can move them around on your refrigerator in different configurations?  It will never be infinite.  I can keep learning new language and new metaphors, but how steeped I am in this culture.  I can’t escape it, and I’m starting to comprehend that I don’t have to.

Maybe all language, all culture, all religion, all pilgrimages, all creative and intellectual pursuits lead to the same place?  I say that as if I’m afraid to name it.  What name could contain Oneness?  Do I need to become a theologian?  (Something inside me tells me No.)

It doesn’t matter how I got here, because this is where we all are.  I keep saying things that I’m slightly concerned make no sense.  This “here” is infinite love.  It doesn’t eliminate horrors and suffering.  It doesn’t erase the vagaries of existence.  I can’t really stomach making statements that seem to gloss over reality.

I keep pushing ahead and trying to write about this so I can integrate it more, observe the edges of my understanding.  It’s a challenge when edges keep dissolving.  It’s part of the lesson.  Stasis is an illusion.  What isn’t illusion?!  We’re clouded with illusions but they are no more substantial than dust.

I’m writing this as me, you, us.  This sentience gives us the chance to bear witness and melt in the face of beauty and compassion.  We strive; we don’t strive; it doesn’t matter.  It all matters.  This is energy; this is matter.

Posted by: scintillatingspeck | May 12, 2016

Writing towards intimacy.

I don’t know how to tackle this. I am trying not to let the weight of years press on me. I want to feel organized. I want to feel momentum. I want to feel FLOW. (Or like David Petraitis said, conjoining flow and focus, flowcus.) Maybe I can get there, finally.

Maybe it’s important to acknowledge just how hard the past two years have been. Maybe the reason I couldn’t get a firm grasp on my book was because it was literally impossible, in the face of feeling so depressed and alone and unsupported. Maybe the terrible burdens of secrecy and shame can be thrown off, now. Maybe I don’t have to give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks of my relationships or how my approach to intimacy has shifted and grown.

SO: I think the central theme of my book is INTIMACY, and pushing against the forces that squelch it, and trying to make it EMBODIED and REAL. I don’t want a diluted version of life, parsed out in tiny doses of officially approved shape and size and parameters. None of that. I don’t have fucking time for that. I have a finite life and I’m going to live it, and I’m going to do my utmost to model to my child that a meaningful, full life is not something to aspire to, but something to immediately grasp, taste, hold close and love madly.

I need to write about DISEMBODIMENT. I need to write about the intersections between personal trauma and collective trauma. I need to write about the breakdowns in connection and how we have to jump the guardrail if we’re ever to have a prayer of getting real with each other. Brené Brown really hit the nail on the head with her work on shame and vulnerability and what we need to do to live wholehearted lives.

This isn’t being fluffy. This isn’t some cutesy tale in the vein of your average hearts-and-flowers love story. It won’t fit the narrative. It only fits MY narrative, and that’s all I want, to get personal, to know what others’ gritty, messy, gorgeous, personal stories are, and how our stories join together. They always do, when we allow ourselves to be open.

I took a journey I didn’t think was possible, and I’m still on it, and it’s not done with me yet. I’m not sure how to get perspective in order to write the book that I need to write. I don’t want to write a book for the sake of having it done—I want it to be the book that calls out from deep necessity. I need to find a way to spell out that INTIMACY, in its myriad guises, is what offers redemption while we are alive, what so frequently gives us meaning as human animals, what transcends the fear of destruction and death. I want to say: I wanted to know my own heart and whatever it had to say. I wanted to share it. I wanted yours to speak to mine, directly, without these infernal filters that clog up relentlessly.

There are structural elements that need much more clarity. I need to study and practice. I need to bring my cognitive abilities into the service of my heart, into the service of accessibility. The practice of writing, as far as I can tell, is most spiritual when this integration of head and heart can take place. My head has not been tidy. My life has not been tidy.

I think all I can do is keep spiraling back to what’s centrally important and stop berating myself about not having a Product to present to the world. It seems the only way forward to creating a real, tangible Book is to forget about the final product and focus entirely on process. It brings up colossal amounts of internal shit for me. Inner, younger Jen can’t comprehend that it’s not about making the grade—she still thinks that’s the measure of value even when it leaves her hollow and desperate. Inner Wise Woman says: Sweetheart, it did a number on you. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you had to grow up in a culture of ruthless competition and hierarchy and soul-stomping. But listen: you are dismantling it daily, in every act of disobedience. You are finding a different piece of ground to stand on, a wild place, with uncoerced fruit ripening on trees and shrubs. Soon you will be spreading a feast and inviting everyone you know to join you.

Photo on 2016-05-12 at 12.12

Posted by: scintillatingspeck | May 9, 2016

Insider. (Outsider, continued.)

About three weeks ago I wrote about feeling like an Outsider.

I wrote then that my explorations into this topic were to be continued, and here I am, continuing.  The only thing is, I’m finding it mighty hard these days to hold onto the outsider-ness.  It’s as if I approached the topic, only to have it melt away into nothingness.

How can I see myself as an outsider when we’re all insiders?  I’m an insider.  You’re an insider.  We aren’t separate.  I realize that sometimes I’m able to access this truth, and other times it’s far more difficult.  I’m willing to accept that my realizations will wax and wane, and that the waxing and waning has little to do with enduring truth.  I am such a speck.  I love my speckishness, and my absolute, immutable connection to All That Is.

The other day a stranger said to me (right here in this same café where I’m sitting now, Haymarket, in Northampton, Mass.), “You look familiar.  Have we met?”  Then she realized I just reminded her of someone else she knew and she didn’t actually know me.  I said, “It’s okay.  We’re all related, anyway.”  Her face lit up.  I can’t stop thinking of that light.  It was a perfect moment of mutual recognition.  I live for such moments.

We are, literally, all related.  Every living thing on Earth is related.  I’m related to every sycamore tree.  You’re related to every hummingbird.  We’re related to every otter that has ever lived.  We’re related to geniuses and despots and the one perfect gardenia that will never be forgotten.

This seems connected, somehow, to the seeming conundrum of having a sense of place.  It’s something I’ve longed for, something I assumed might always be elusive to me, as the child of immigrants and diasporas.  Where is my community?  Which land claims me as its own?  Could I ever consider myself native to a place?

I realized, it doesn’t matter.  I’m native to Earth.  I am absolutely, definitely, 100% beyond the shadow of a doubt, native to Earth.  This is where I belong.  I’m on the inside of this magnificent biosphere, wandering around on the thin crust of brilliance.  It doesn’t matter who rejects me, or how I think of myself, or any anxieties that crop up—there is nothing I or anyone else could possibly do to make me not belong to Earth.

When I let myself love and be loved, it’s impossible to feel like an outsider for long.  What is this sheer magic of heart alignment?  this singing joy, this steady gaze, this blazing thrill?  Do I belong in these arms?  Is this what I was born to do, to love profound and wide, in the uncharted oceanic depths?

Yes.

Posted by: scintillatingspeck | May 5, 2016

Surrendering to joy.

floating gardenia

It would behoove us to become accustomed to the advancing and receding of emotional states, all of them, in this human embodiment we are all inhabiting.  It’s a challenge when some of them are so acute and so excruciating.  We label them negative or positive, embrace them, flee from them—mostly flee from them, in my estimation, based on my tiny little speckish perspective.  I see people numbing themselves constantly in this Nation of Alienation.  I understand.  I have fled, too, over and over, appalled at the towering mountains of injustice and terrified of my own supposed unworthiness.

The “negative” emotions, the rage, the sadness, the grief, the envy, the desire to withdraw, destroy, sulk, wail—these are so easily painted as bad.  But they are what they are.  They do not demand some horrible action.  They do not have to be intolerable tyrants controlling us from within.  We can let them exist, give them a voice, give them some love, in fact.  They have their reasons.  They have their rhythms.  This is what it means to be alive.

When there’s a long cycle of “negative,” it can be profoundly disconcerting when the balance tips towards the “positive” emotions, the joy, the playfulness, the radiance, the love.  At least for me.  It’s both a relief and a source of confusion, as if I am so used to confronting or fleeing the dark that I hardly know what to do with the light when it appears.  But I think the key is in dismantling the whole notion of having to confront or flee.

No confrontation.  No flight.  Only surrender.

This sounds downright dangerous in some ways.  Who would recommend surrendering to the dark?  But let me tell you what I mean by surrender.

https://lifeheartandsoulblog.files.wordpress.com/2014/07/surrender-dorothy.jpg?w=418&h=314

image source: https://lifeheartandsoulblog.files.wordpress.com/2014/07/surrender-dorothy.jpg (although as you may recall, this is from the film “The Wizard of Oz”)

I don’t mean surrender to the Wicked Witch of the West.

I don’t mean surrender to wallowing in fierce waves of depression and rumination.

I don’t mean surrender to impulses that are bound to have hurtful consequences.

I don’t mean surrender to external forces that are harming us.

I mean, just let it be.  Let the feelings be, and lay down the ideas of their inherent rightness or wrongness.  Lay down the defenses—we can use our defenses some other time, when it makes sense to use them.  Lay down and let love guide the river.  Our heads (or at least my head—I don’t know, maybe yours is on the ball) are notoriously unreliable at managing certain tasks, including coming up with the notion that everything is a task to be managed.

What I want to emphasize, though, is that this kind of surrender is not just important with what we deem dark, but with what we deem light.  Funny how I’ve managed to focus so much on that “dark” stuff in a post called “Surrendering to Joy,” eh?  That’s a bit of fleeing you’re witnessing.

There is so much joy, beauty, and love in my life right now, it’s astonishing.  Someone told me the other day that I deserve it.  Really, I deserve it?  Yes, you are intrinsically deserving.  I realize that the dregs of an old belief are still lingering, that I couldn’t possibly deserve it.  It’s attended by anxieties: what if I’m a fraud?  What if my inner undeservingness becomes obvious and all the joy goes away?

This is when Inner Wise Woman steps in.

You are a sweet, shining speck, love.  No more and no less.  This feeling of unworthiness?  Let it be.  You’re just a human.  You are a tiny microcosm of the universe.  You don’t have to fight the beauty that overtakes your senses—you can lean back and enjoy it.  That’s all.  No justification, no striving, no proof, no system of punishment and reward.  The world is not what you were taught, not a machine, not a hierarchy, not a competition, none of that.  There is love and magic all around and inside you.  Look!  You can surrender to it now.

 

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