I am sitting in a spacious room at the Halekulani Hotel on Waikiki Beach, looking out at the ocean. A pigeon--or is it a dove?-- prances on the balcony, looking for crumbs from the room service breakfast of warm popovers and poha berry jam. Instrumental island music is playing on the stereo, foreground to the background of waves and children’s shouts from the beach eight stories below. An antherium in shades of green sits on the desk, alongside a dove-grey folio which holds the hotel stationary, embossed with its trademark orchid, on which I write these words. I am reveling not only in the view, but also in an uncharacteristic feeling of happiness, of joie de vivre.
This is the trip I used to fantasize taking with my mother, back when I was still courting her, still hoping to win the approval and affection of the woman who gave me life, but could not give me love. I imagined that I would invite her to fly to Hawaii and stay at this luxuriously beautiful hotel, where we would sit on the veranda, telling funny stories, drinking pina coladas and watching the sun set. But it was always just a fantasy. For however much the child in me wished to give my mother such a vacation, the adult me knew that if I had offered it to her, she would have found a way to back out at the last minute, to reject me once again.
The white rooms and the green lawn below, shaded by palm trees and adorned with deck chairs, resembles the park-like sanitoriums found in European movies, where the heroine goes to heal from the shock of a near-fatal accident or the loss of a loved one. As I sit here, soaking up the beauty of ocean and sky, I wonder whether three nights will be enough.
I am here alone over the summer solstice to celebrate getting my master’s degree while simultaneously doing a year of intensive therapy to come to terms with my childhood abuse. I have come to this island, ruled by the fire goddess, Pele, as part of my effort to re-parent myself, to learn to be my own good mother, to see myself as beautiful, to treat myself as the precious child I once was.
I ask myself what I would have offered my mother if she were here, and then give that to myself without guilt. An early morning walk on the beach. An afternoon shopping for the perfect pair of bronze, bejeweled flip-flops. A hair treatment of warm coconut oil scented with mangoes A slice of macademia nut pie before dinner.
In the process of meeting my own desires, I am also reconnecting with my body, experiencing pleasure through senses dulled by pain and feeling my own abuse. I walk along the beach, holding the hand of the little girl who is my inner child. I slide through the shallow pool, then lay on the lounge chair and let the sun dry me. Wearing the slinky black dress with ruched sides that I bought for my birthday, I take myself out to dinner at the hotel’s French restaurant, La Mer, where I dine on chilled lobster salad and organic vegetables. While savoring the dessert of five tiny scoops of sorbet arranged like dabs of paint on a cookie shaped like a palette, I watch the hula dancer’s graceful hands and hips moving to the rhythm of the slack-key guitar and ukulele and sway in my seat. And at night, even as I toss and turn with the unfamiliar found of crashing surf, I rest in the softness of the sheets against my skin.
As I revel in the beauty of this place, as I take in the sensual pleasures of that surround me, I feel I have finally come home, to this body, to her beauty, to an uncharacteristic sense joie de vivre, the joy of being alive. The joy of not only surviving but of thriving.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Seeing
In his book, “A Language Older Than Words,” Derrick Jensen writes of the relationship between the abuse he endured as a child at the hands of his father and the abuse civilization perpetuates upon humans-- especially indigenous peoples, women and children-- and non-humans. In other words, the violent family is a microcosm to the macrocosm of a violent civilization.
A friend loaned me Jensen’s book as I was going through my own process of recovering from an abusive childhood. It took me more than half a year to read it, not because of its length, but because so much of this beautifully-written book is full of pain: the pain of a lost childhood, the pain of the devastation of forest and salmon, the pain of animal testing, the pain of enslavement, the pain of debilitating disease. And yet Jensen is also dogged if not in his hope then in his determination to survive, to persevere in the face of forces driven to annihilate us all.
As I have worked through the shock, rage, sadness and loss of my own childhood, as I have let go of the myth that the family I grew up in was a-little-dysfunctional-but-basically-loving, I have begun to see past the myth of our culture, our nation as a-little-unequal-but-still-basically-good. I am starting to see how we, the upper, middle and even the working classes of the U.S., have been anesthetized, while our government and the transnational corporations have operated with impunity, wreaking havoc on humans and the environment in the name of greed. We live in a system that forces us to work longer hours than virtually any other industrialized nation (400 hours more per year than the French) and assaults us with the most sophisticated advertising ever produced to convince us that we must have the products touted to be whole human beings, to be valuable, to be loveable, so that we spend our scant leisure time shopping on-line or at the mall or zoning out in front of the television set, absorbing more advertising.
This systemic anesthetizing process goes hand-in-hand with our individual needs to cope with the long-term effects of domestic violence. In a country where one out of every three to four women and one out of every five to seven men have been sexually abused as children, where spanking is still condoned and beatings are common, where emotional and verbal abuse are rife, is it any wonder that we try to numb the pain with everything from substance abuse to work to shopping to sports to on-line porn? All while clinging to our belief that it-really-wasn’t-all-that-bad, our parents were only trying to teach us discipline when they took off their belt, only trying to show their love for us when they reached into our pants, only trying to teach us self-control when they screamed at us at the top of their lungs, just as their parents had done to them.
Meanwhile, our lifestyle, comfortable beyond our great-grandparents’ imagination, with central heating, automobiles, digital gadgets, hot showers, convenience meals, clothes in every color, etc, etc, etc, is based on extracting natural resources in ways and amounts which are so completely unsustainable as to be rapacious. Rape, literal and metaphorical, along with murder, torture, and institutionalized poverty are tools used to control those who resist the destruction of the land and her creatures. These atrocities, committed overseas or in our own poorest ghettos and reservations, happen out of sight, even of the TV cameras. If the people of a wealthy U.S. suburb like Plano, Texas or Palo Alto, California were to riot because their water was supplied by a foreign company which was raising rates to one-quarter of the average person’s monthly salary, that would be news. But when the same thing happens in a poor city on another continent, CNN and Fox News are nowhere in sight. The dumping of toxic chemicals into rivers, the employment of children in sweat-shops, the clear-cutting of forests, the birth defects resulting from radiation poisoning, these do not make the evening news, not least because their very prevalence, their “normality,” the very fact that they are not new, keeps them from being considered newsworthy.
If we can take off our blinders, unplug ourselves from the mass media, and remove the layers of denial, perhaps we can gather the courage to confront the reality of our lives and of our world, to see the damage done to us and the damage done by us, directly and indirectly. Perhaps we can see reach out to heal each other and together change direction from violence to peace, or at least from destruction to survival.
A friend loaned me Jensen’s book as I was going through my own process of recovering from an abusive childhood. It took me more than half a year to read it, not because of its length, but because so much of this beautifully-written book is full of pain: the pain of a lost childhood, the pain of the devastation of forest and salmon, the pain of animal testing, the pain of enslavement, the pain of debilitating disease. And yet Jensen is also dogged if not in his hope then in his determination to survive, to persevere in the face of forces driven to annihilate us all.
As I have worked through the shock, rage, sadness and loss of my own childhood, as I have let go of the myth that the family I grew up in was a-little-dysfunctional-but-basically-loving, I have begun to see past the myth of our culture, our nation as a-little-unequal-but-still-basically-good. I am starting to see how we, the upper, middle and even the working classes of the U.S., have been anesthetized, while our government and the transnational corporations have operated with impunity, wreaking havoc on humans and the environment in the name of greed. We live in a system that forces us to work longer hours than virtually any other industrialized nation (400 hours more per year than the French) and assaults us with the most sophisticated advertising ever produced to convince us that we must have the products touted to be whole human beings, to be valuable, to be loveable, so that we spend our scant leisure time shopping on-line or at the mall or zoning out in front of the television set, absorbing more advertising.
This systemic anesthetizing process goes hand-in-hand with our individual needs to cope with the long-term effects of domestic violence. In a country where one out of every three to four women and one out of every five to seven men have been sexually abused as children, where spanking is still condoned and beatings are common, where emotional and verbal abuse are rife, is it any wonder that we try to numb the pain with everything from substance abuse to work to shopping to sports to on-line porn? All while clinging to our belief that it-really-wasn’t-all-that-bad, our parents were only trying to teach us discipline when they took off their belt, only trying to show their love for us when they reached into our pants, only trying to teach us self-control when they screamed at us at the top of their lungs, just as their parents had done to them.
Meanwhile, our lifestyle, comfortable beyond our great-grandparents’ imagination, with central heating, automobiles, digital gadgets, hot showers, convenience meals, clothes in every color, etc, etc, etc, is based on extracting natural resources in ways and amounts which are so completely unsustainable as to be rapacious. Rape, literal and metaphorical, along with murder, torture, and institutionalized poverty are tools used to control those who resist the destruction of the land and her creatures. These atrocities, committed overseas or in our own poorest ghettos and reservations, happen out of sight, even of the TV cameras. If the people of a wealthy U.S. suburb like Plano, Texas or Palo Alto, California were to riot because their water was supplied by a foreign company which was raising rates to one-quarter of the average person’s monthly salary, that would be news. But when the same thing happens in a poor city on another continent, CNN and Fox News are nowhere in sight. The dumping of toxic chemicals into rivers, the employment of children in sweat-shops, the clear-cutting of forests, the birth defects resulting from radiation poisoning, these do not make the evening news, not least because their very prevalence, their “normality,” the very fact that they are not new, keeps them from being considered newsworthy.
If we can take off our blinders, unplug ourselves from the mass media, and remove the layers of denial, perhaps we can gather the courage to confront the reality of our lives and of our world, to see the damage done to us and the damage done by us, directly and indirectly. Perhaps we can see reach out to heal each other and together change direction from violence to peace, or at least from destruction to survival.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
The Thrill of the Pole
The Thrill of the Pole
I have to admit that I was a bit skeptical about the idea that New Burlesque—or any other form of public striptease-- could be empowering for women. But my daughter is a passionate proponent of this art form, so when she suggested we catch a show at Ivan Kane’s Forty Deuce in Los Angeles, I was curious to see what she found so fascinating.
My image of burlesque was beautiful young women doing dance routines while removing gorgeous sequined costumes. So when a lovely young woman came out on stage in a royal blue long-sleeved sequined top and matching ankle-length skirt, slit up the front to reveal a provocative bit of gold fringe, my expectations were met. What surprised me was the playfulness of her routine and the fact that even after she’d stripped down, she was still as covered up as if she were on a local beach.
At first, I was impressed simply because she could prance around the narrow bar in 6-inch heels. But as the show continued, I was even more taken with her agility and strength, especially when she hung upside down from the ropes. By this point, she was in a glittery pastie bra and white bikini bottom with a fringe “tail,” which bobbed up and down as she moved to the beat of the drum. I could never have done that, not even when I was 18 years old. The audience was entranced, but most importantly, the dancer herself seemed to be having a very good time.
The next day, I had the opportunity to delve a little deeper into the art of the striptease with an introductory class at the S-Factor in Los Angeles. That’s “S” as in stripper. As it happened, I was one of the oldest women in this class, and probably the least fit. To my relief, the room was dimly lit with no mirrors. The instructor explained that the absence of mirrors was meant to encourage us to focus on feeling good in our own skin, rather than on how we might look to others.
We arranged our mats on the floor in an oval around the three shiny poles in the center of the room and introduced ourselves. As we followed the teacher and her assistant through the strenuous workout targeting hips, buttocks, legs and abs, they encouraged us to play with our own hair, touch our faces, stroke our legs. Some of the exercises were variations on yoga postures, like hip circles combined with the bridge pose or cat and cow with a circling torso motion, but rather than holding the position, we moved through it in slow-motion, which added to the challenge.
The 45-minute or so workout ended with learning the S-Walk, a languid movement of crossed legs and dragging toes, perfect for approaching the pole. For our first pole trick, we held on with both hands, hooked one ankle around it, picked up the other foot and spun down. “No firemen!,” the instructor admonished, explaining that we were not to hug the pole tightly but to maintain a certain distance. It looked simple, but while the other women seemed to catch on quickly, I could not get my back foot off the floor, which meant that I was painfully pulling my wrists down the pole on each attempt. Finally, near the end of the class, my persistence paid off and I was able to mount and spin around the pole. My classmates applauded. Once I figured out how to spin, I didn’t want to stop. Even as the class drew to a close, I was sneaking in a couple of extra spins and wondering where I could get a pole of my own.
Although I learned how to mount the pole, spin down it, and dismount with cocked-hip first, I didn’t particularly feel like a stripper-in-training. Instead, I felt like a thrilled 10-year-old who has finally learned to do a cartwheel and can’t wait to show it off, which I did as soon as my daughter arrived to pick me up at the end of class.
Empowerment takes many forms.
I have to admit that I was a bit skeptical about the idea that New Burlesque—or any other form of public striptease-- could be empowering for women. But my daughter is a passionate proponent of this art form, so when she suggested we catch a show at Ivan Kane’s Forty Deuce in Los Angeles, I was curious to see what she found so fascinating.
My image of burlesque was beautiful young women doing dance routines while removing gorgeous sequined costumes. So when a lovely young woman came out on stage in a royal blue long-sleeved sequined top and matching ankle-length skirt, slit up the front to reveal a provocative bit of gold fringe, my expectations were met. What surprised me was the playfulness of her routine and the fact that even after she’d stripped down, she was still as covered up as if she were on a local beach.
At first, I was impressed simply because she could prance around the narrow bar in 6-inch heels. But as the show continued, I was even more taken with her agility and strength, especially when she hung upside down from the ropes. By this point, she was in a glittery pastie bra and white bikini bottom with a fringe “tail,” which bobbed up and down as she moved to the beat of the drum. I could never have done that, not even when I was 18 years old. The audience was entranced, but most importantly, the dancer herself seemed to be having a very good time.
The next day, I had the opportunity to delve a little deeper into the art of the striptease with an introductory class at the S-Factor in Los Angeles. That’s “S” as in stripper. As it happened, I was one of the oldest women in this class, and probably the least fit. To my relief, the room was dimly lit with no mirrors. The instructor explained that the absence of mirrors was meant to encourage us to focus on feeling good in our own skin, rather than on how we might look to others.
We arranged our mats on the floor in an oval around the three shiny poles in the center of the room and introduced ourselves. As we followed the teacher and her assistant through the strenuous workout targeting hips, buttocks, legs and abs, they encouraged us to play with our own hair, touch our faces, stroke our legs. Some of the exercises were variations on yoga postures, like hip circles combined with the bridge pose or cat and cow with a circling torso motion, but rather than holding the position, we moved through it in slow-motion, which added to the challenge.
The 45-minute or so workout ended with learning the S-Walk, a languid movement of crossed legs and dragging toes, perfect for approaching the pole. For our first pole trick, we held on with both hands, hooked one ankle around it, picked up the other foot and spun down. “No firemen!,” the instructor admonished, explaining that we were not to hug the pole tightly but to maintain a certain distance. It looked simple, but while the other women seemed to catch on quickly, I could not get my back foot off the floor, which meant that I was painfully pulling my wrists down the pole on each attempt. Finally, near the end of the class, my persistence paid off and I was able to mount and spin around the pole. My classmates applauded. Once I figured out how to spin, I didn’t want to stop. Even as the class drew to a close, I was sneaking in a couple of extra spins and wondering where I could get a pole of my own.
Although I learned how to mount the pole, spin down it, and dismount with cocked-hip first, I didn’t particularly feel like a stripper-in-training. Instead, I felt like a thrilled 10-year-old who has finally learned to do a cartwheel and can’t wait to show it off, which I did as soon as my daughter arrived to pick me up at the end of class.
Empowerment takes many forms.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Beautiful Things
I love beautiful things, especially clothes, and I enjoy shopping for them. I like the process of perusing the racks for my favorite colors and running my hands over the fabric, a process that seems like a modern-day version of hunting and gathering.
Years ago, I decided to avoid polyesters in favor of all natural fabrics like cotton, thinking that I was making a more sustainable, healthier choice, as well as one that was more aesthetically pleasing. But I recently learned that cotton garments are neither sustainable nor healthy; a single garment can require up to a third of a pound of pesticide to produce. Appalled, I decided to take action—the only new clothes that I would allow myself would be those made from sustainable fibers, such as organic cotton, bamboo, soy and flax. Everything else would be vintage or gently used.
An on-line search revealed that there are a number of designers in the eco-fashion niche, with clothes that are hip, if a tad expensive (for example, a $125 T-shirt). But ordering on-line has it own costs, such as the carbon released in the delivery process, so I decided to look closer to home. After seeing the press attention to eco-fashion designers and noticing that both my local natural foods stores have a small selection of eco-clothes, I took my quest to the next level and headed for the closest mall.
I started at Lucy’s. I asked the clerk if any of the clothes were made from organic cotton, bamboo, or other sustainable fibers. She didn’t know, but asked her co-worker, who said they didn’t have anything with organic cotton, but led me to the black Tonga skirt, a long, knit garment that was made from bamboo. Fun but I have enough black in my closet. At the neighboring retailer, Lucky Brand Dungarees, the clerk answered my question by saying that most of the items were made from cotton. But he didn’t know about organic cotton. I went on to Eileen Fisher, which had two styles of dresses and two styles of tops in three different colors, six or so choices in total, made from organic cotton. None of them were my style, but I was pleased to find something nonetheless. Maybe there was hope. I went on to TSE, MaxMara, and United Colors of Bennetton, but no luck. Feeling rather discouraged, I headed for Bloomingdales. In the juniors department, the clerk I asked turned to her co-worker and asked if she knew anything about organic cotton. Her answer was “Yes, but not here.” However, as I was walking out of the department store, I sped a selection of socks in several different styles and earth colors. Each had a sustainable fiber—soy, bamboo, organic cotton, flax (a.k.a. linen)-- prominently labeled, while the other fibers (such as nylon) were listed in tiny print on the back.
My informal survey was hardly comprehensive. I know that Sephora carries a couple of lines of organic skin care products, including the locally-produecd Juicy Beauty. It is entirely possible that I missed a handful of other garments made from sustainable fibers. It is even possible that in another year or two there will be a Linda Loudermilk boutique or an eco-fashion emporium at this upscale shopping center. Although I applaud retailers who offer eco-chic clothes, solving the environmental problems generated by the garment industry is not as easy as replacing all current merchandise with garments made from organic cotton, silk, bamboo, soy, or seaweed. In other words, we can’t shop our way out.
Remember the three ecological R’s: reduce, re-use, recycle?. Most people I’ve met in the socially-progressive Bay Area are dutiful to the point of being religious about recycling. Every week they rinse out their wine bottles, soda cans, and plastic containers and put them, along with newspapers, junk mail, and used office paper, into big blue bins and haul them down to the curb. Some of them also re-use items, such as bringing their own bags to the grocery store or writing down their shopping list on an old envelope rather than a new sheet of paper.
But what about reduction? How many of us are reducing our consumption? Of course, if you’ve been laid-off or are retired or home on maternity leave, you might reduce your consumption to save money. Or you might just switch to shopping at less-expensive retailer, say, Ross instead of Nordstrom. If you were aware of the cost, not just in dollars and cents, but in natural resources extracted, in child labor and other inhumane practices, in toxic chemicals inhaled by farmers and added to the global total, and in increased landfill volume when the garment is no longer trendy or its looks have faded, would you shop differently?
Of course, there are times when you need a new garment due to changing circumstances and you might not be able to find a suitable used one. In this situation, we can turn for inspiration to those arbiters of chic, the French, who think of shopping in terms of coup de couer, to fall madly in love, with a piece of clothing. If you can let the cacophony fade, tune out those voices created by advertisers and marketers which insist that your life will not be complete without this product, and listen closely to your own heart’s desire, buying only those garments that speak to you, then you will have a closet filled not with false or fair-weather acquaintances, but with steadfast friends who, in exchange for a little care at laundry time and the occasional trip to the tailor for updating, will provide you with years of comfort and beauty.
Years ago, I decided to avoid polyesters in favor of all natural fabrics like cotton, thinking that I was making a more sustainable, healthier choice, as well as one that was more aesthetically pleasing. But I recently learned that cotton garments are neither sustainable nor healthy; a single garment can require up to a third of a pound of pesticide to produce. Appalled, I decided to take action—the only new clothes that I would allow myself would be those made from sustainable fibers, such as organic cotton, bamboo, soy and flax. Everything else would be vintage or gently used.
An on-line search revealed that there are a number of designers in the eco-fashion niche, with clothes that are hip, if a tad expensive (for example, a $125 T-shirt). But ordering on-line has it own costs, such as the carbon released in the delivery process, so I decided to look closer to home. After seeing the press attention to eco-fashion designers and noticing that both my local natural foods stores have a small selection of eco-clothes, I took my quest to the next level and headed for the closest mall.
I started at Lucy’s. I asked the clerk if any of the clothes were made from organic cotton, bamboo, or other sustainable fibers. She didn’t know, but asked her co-worker, who said they didn’t have anything with organic cotton, but led me to the black Tonga skirt, a long, knit garment that was made from bamboo. Fun but I have enough black in my closet. At the neighboring retailer, Lucky Brand Dungarees, the clerk answered my question by saying that most of the items were made from cotton. But he didn’t know about organic cotton. I went on to Eileen Fisher, which had two styles of dresses and two styles of tops in three different colors, six or so choices in total, made from organic cotton. None of them were my style, but I was pleased to find something nonetheless. Maybe there was hope. I went on to TSE, MaxMara, and United Colors of Bennetton, but no luck. Feeling rather discouraged, I headed for Bloomingdales. In the juniors department, the clerk I asked turned to her co-worker and asked if she knew anything about organic cotton. Her answer was “Yes, but not here.” However, as I was walking out of the department store, I sped a selection of socks in several different styles and earth colors. Each had a sustainable fiber—soy, bamboo, organic cotton, flax (a.k.a. linen)-- prominently labeled, while the other fibers (such as nylon) were listed in tiny print on the back.
My informal survey was hardly comprehensive. I know that Sephora carries a couple of lines of organic skin care products, including the locally-produecd Juicy Beauty. It is entirely possible that I missed a handful of other garments made from sustainable fibers. It is even possible that in another year or two there will be a Linda Loudermilk boutique or an eco-fashion emporium at this upscale shopping center. Although I applaud retailers who offer eco-chic clothes, solving the environmental problems generated by the garment industry is not as easy as replacing all current merchandise with garments made from organic cotton, silk, bamboo, soy, or seaweed. In other words, we can’t shop our way out.
Remember the three ecological R’s: reduce, re-use, recycle?. Most people I’ve met in the socially-progressive Bay Area are dutiful to the point of being religious about recycling. Every week they rinse out their wine bottles, soda cans, and plastic containers and put them, along with newspapers, junk mail, and used office paper, into big blue bins and haul them down to the curb. Some of them also re-use items, such as bringing their own bags to the grocery store or writing down their shopping list on an old envelope rather than a new sheet of paper.
But what about reduction? How many of us are reducing our consumption? Of course, if you’ve been laid-off or are retired or home on maternity leave, you might reduce your consumption to save money. Or you might just switch to shopping at less-expensive retailer, say, Ross instead of Nordstrom. If you were aware of the cost, not just in dollars and cents, but in natural resources extracted, in child labor and other inhumane practices, in toxic chemicals inhaled by farmers and added to the global total, and in increased landfill volume when the garment is no longer trendy or its looks have faded, would you shop differently?
Of course, there are times when you need a new garment due to changing circumstances and you might not be able to find a suitable used one. In this situation, we can turn for inspiration to those arbiters of chic, the French, who think of shopping in terms of coup de couer, to fall madly in love, with a piece of clothing. If you can let the cacophony fade, tune out those voices created by advertisers and marketers which insist that your life will not be complete without this product, and listen closely to your own heart’s desire, buying only those garments that speak to you, then you will have a closet filled not with false or fair-weather acquaintances, but with steadfast friends who, in exchange for a little care at laundry time and the occasional trip to the tailor for updating, will provide you with years of comfort and beauty.
Passionate Sustainability
A few years ago, I was standing in front of an art gallery named Hang looking at a rectangular piece hanging in the window. Half of the rectangle was a mélange of cheerful colors with a couple of words, including “desire”; the other half was a chalkboard with the heading "Goals for 2004," followed by several possibilities written in chalk.
I went inside to take a closer look. At the sales clerk’s urging, I erased the previous list and wrote in my own goals. Study Japanese. Make Art in Santa Fe. Visit Mongolia. Live a Life of Passion. I went outside to look at my handiwork. Somehow, seeing it there in black and white, with random passersby and my 20something son as witnesses made the list seem more real. “What do you mean by living a passionate life?” my son, Michael, asked. At the time, I didn’t really know what I meant; I only sensed the absence of desire. Desire as the yearning, the spark, that leads to passion, not only physical but also metaphorical. In a word, I was depressed.
In the years that followed, I stepped away from the path which others expected me to take and onto the path of following my own heart. Like the yellow-brick road, this path is sometimes bright and other times faint. It has taken me through dangerous territory, places where angels fear to tread, and into moments not only of despair but also of ecstasy.
In walking this path, I have questioned, again and again, what my life’s purpose might be and how I can make a difference to both humans and non-humans. What, if anything, can I do to end the destruction of the environment? How do I act from my understanding that we—you, me, this tree, that bird, those bees, the stars-- are all interconnected in a web of life when I live in a culture that considers stars to be dead matter and values only some people (and their companion animals)? Is it possible to live a life of passionate sustainability, to live in a way that does not damage the ability of future generations to sustain themselves, without disengaging from society altogether?
But lately, in thinking about the link between passion and sustainability, I have come to wonder if it is possible to live a sustainable life, at least in the industrial world, without passion? I would argue that the answer might well be no. Without passion, where will we get the energy to protect the natural world, of which we are a part? Without a desire for something different than the current system, where will we get the will to engage in the struggle, to act differently, to not be sheep following the path of complicity with corporate greed and governmental deceit? Without the support of other passionate people, how can we endure and overcome the feelings of helplessness, the fears that we may be doing too little too late to save even our own grandchildren, not to mention countless other species? Without passion, how can we survive?
I went inside to take a closer look. At the sales clerk’s urging, I erased the previous list and wrote in my own goals. Study Japanese. Make Art in Santa Fe. Visit Mongolia. Live a Life of Passion. I went outside to look at my handiwork. Somehow, seeing it there in black and white, with random passersby and my 20something son as witnesses made the list seem more real. “What do you mean by living a passionate life?” my son, Michael, asked. At the time, I didn’t really know what I meant; I only sensed the absence of desire. Desire as the yearning, the spark, that leads to passion, not only physical but also metaphorical. In a word, I was depressed.
In the years that followed, I stepped away from the path which others expected me to take and onto the path of following my own heart. Like the yellow-brick road, this path is sometimes bright and other times faint. It has taken me through dangerous territory, places where angels fear to tread, and into moments not only of despair but also of ecstasy.
In walking this path, I have questioned, again and again, what my life’s purpose might be and how I can make a difference to both humans and non-humans. What, if anything, can I do to end the destruction of the environment? How do I act from my understanding that we—you, me, this tree, that bird, those bees, the stars-- are all interconnected in a web of life when I live in a culture that considers stars to be dead matter and values only some people (and their companion animals)? Is it possible to live a life of passionate sustainability, to live in a way that does not damage the ability of future generations to sustain themselves, without disengaging from society altogether?
But lately, in thinking about the link between passion and sustainability, I have come to wonder if it is possible to live a sustainable life, at least in the industrial world, without passion? I would argue that the answer might well be no. Without passion, where will we get the energy to protect the natural world, of which we are a part? Without a desire for something different than the current system, where will we get the will to engage in the struggle, to act differently, to not be sheep following the path of complicity with corporate greed and governmental deceit? Without the support of other passionate people, how can we endure and overcome the feelings of helplessness, the fears that we may be doing too little too late to save even our own grandchildren, not to mention countless other species? Without passion, how can we survive?
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Making Friends with the Mirror
When you look in the mirror, what do you see? Do you focus your attention on what you perceive to be your assets or your flaws? Do you notice your long neck and fingers or do you focus on the tiny wrinkles at the corners of your eyes? How do you see yourself? With loving-kindness and appreciation as you would a lover or with criticism and judgment, as you would a bitter rival? Can you love what poet Mary Oliver calls “the soft animal of your body”?
Self-love has had a bad rap in Western culture. Think of the queen in “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,” looking into the magic mirror and asking “Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who’s the fairest of them all?” The queen is vain, obsessed with her own appearance, so obsessed that she will poison the younger woman who is now her competition. Snow White is humble and pure, so unconcerned with her looks that one cannot imagine her asking the mirror’s opinion. And even if someone told her that she was the fairest in the land, she would not believe it for a second.
People say that beautiful women have the hardest time with aging because outer beauty fades irretrievably. And if beauty is synonymous with youth, then it will slowly vanish. But just as you can stay young at heart and keep a youthful open mind even when the body is no longer as firm and flexible as it once was, so too can you see yourself as beautiful even if your beauty is not the same as that of a supermodel or film star. I’m not talking about inner beauty, which contributes its own mysterious glow, but about outer beauty, about the perspective you take on the temple of your spirit, your own body.
Think of a lover, who never seems to notice your stretch marks, but instead praises your long neck when your hair is up or who compliments your behind, the same rear view that you have always loathed because one cheek hangs lower than the other. Can you imagine seeing yourself as your lover would?
Think of the women and men you know, your friends, your beloveds, your children. Most likely, you see their individual beauty. One friend belly-dancing in a local performance, her voluptuous body swaying to the beat of the drum. Entranced by the music, her face radiant, her costume glittering, she is an embodiment of the Divine Feminine. Another friend’s brown hair shot with silver, blowing in the breeze, her eyes alight with interest as she talks about the challenges of making a living doing what she love. A third friend whose deep orange caftan and carnelian necklace draws your eyes to her deep blue ones, her laugh as she shows off her Italian sandals, which have the word “sexy” stamped on the inner soles.
Now think of yourself. Do you see yourself the way you see your friends? Or do you focus on your every zit, grey hair, wrinkle, stretch mark or pound? Do you hate your thighs, your breasts, your upper arms, your belly, because they aren’t as firm or high or taut as they used to be, or as some celebrity’s appears to be?
I used to think that beauty was a gene that, like red hair, could skip generations. My blonde, blue-eyed mother with porcelain skin and my tall, brunette daughter with dark, almond-shaped eyes were the beauties to my plain Jane. All I could see were the width of my thighs, the stretch marks on my belly, the mousiness of my hair color. But as my daughter blossomed into young womanhood, I knew that if I wanted to be a positive role model of graceful aging, I needed to go beyond appreciating my body as a machine and change my self-perception to match my daughter’s view of me, which could be summed up as, “You’re beautiful and don’t let anyone tell you anything else.”
In my quest to see myself as beautiful, I wrote affirmations, lost a few pounds, bought clothes that fit my body, colored my hair auburn, found a good therapist to unlearn my negative conditioning, and began a 5 Rhythms dance practice. Now when I look at photos of my younger self, I can see the beauty that was there all along. It’s not the cool perfection of a Grecian statue or the willowy body of a catwalk model. It’s the thoughtful look in my eyes, the softness of my touch, the shy curve of my smile, the swaying of my hips as I move to the music of life.
Self-love has had a bad rap in Western culture. Think of the queen in “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,” looking into the magic mirror and asking “Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who’s the fairest of them all?” The queen is vain, obsessed with her own appearance, so obsessed that she will poison the younger woman who is now her competition. Snow White is humble and pure, so unconcerned with her looks that one cannot imagine her asking the mirror’s opinion. And even if someone told her that she was the fairest in the land, she would not believe it for a second.
People say that beautiful women have the hardest time with aging because outer beauty fades irretrievably. And if beauty is synonymous with youth, then it will slowly vanish. But just as you can stay young at heart and keep a youthful open mind even when the body is no longer as firm and flexible as it once was, so too can you see yourself as beautiful even if your beauty is not the same as that of a supermodel or film star. I’m not talking about inner beauty, which contributes its own mysterious glow, but about outer beauty, about the perspective you take on the temple of your spirit, your own body.
Think of a lover, who never seems to notice your stretch marks, but instead praises your long neck when your hair is up or who compliments your behind, the same rear view that you have always loathed because one cheek hangs lower than the other. Can you imagine seeing yourself as your lover would?
Think of the women and men you know, your friends, your beloveds, your children. Most likely, you see their individual beauty. One friend belly-dancing in a local performance, her voluptuous body swaying to the beat of the drum. Entranced by the music, her face radiant, her costume glittering, she is an embodiment of the Divine Feminine. Another friend’s brown hair shot with silver, blowing in the breeze, her eyes alight with interest as she talks about the challenges of making a living doing what she love. A third friend whose deep orange caftan and carnelian necklace draws your eyes to her deep blue ones, her laugh as she shows off her Italian sandals, which have the word “sexy” stamped on the inner soles.
Now think of yourself. Do you see yourself the way you see your friends? Or do you focus on your every zit, grey hair, wrinkle, stretch mark or pound? Do you hate your thighs, your breasts, your upper arms, your belly, because they aren’t as firm or high or taut as they used to be, or as some celebrity’s appears to be?
I used to think that beauty was a gene that, like red hair, could skip generations. My blonde, blue-eyed mother with porcelain skin and my tall, brunette daughter with dark, almond-shaped eyes were the beauties to my plain Jane. All I could see were the width of my thighs, the stretch marks on my belly, the mousiness of my hair color. But as my daughter blossomed into young womanhood, I knew that if I wanted to be a positive role model of graceful aging, I needed to go beyond appreciating my body as a machine and change my self-perception to match my daughter’s view of me, which could be summed up as, “You’re beautiful and don’t let anyone tell you anything else.”
In my quest to see myself as beautiful, I wrote affirmations, lost a few pounds, bought clothes that fit my body, colored my hair auburn, found a good therapist to unlearn my negative conditioning, and began a 5 Rhythms dance practice. Now when I look at photos of my younger self, I can see the beauty that was there all along. It’s not the cool perfection of a Grecian statue or the willowy body of a catwalk model. It’s the thoughtful look in my eyes, the softness of my touch, the shy curve of my smile, the swaying of my hips as I move to the music of life.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
What is Fierce Desire?
Fierce Desire is the name of this blog, the name of my website (still in development) and the name of the business I envision creating to help others embody their passion. Fierce Desire is also my personal journey to find my own heart's desires, to pursue a life of passion, to speak my own truth with love, integrity and compassion.
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