the salty truth

I want to write something true about the sea. Perhaps I can approach truth by sharing my experience. More and more, however, I'm learning that truth can't actually be captured, not in words, not in images. Truth arises through movement. Truth is not static. Truth can be felt but not held. Truth moves me but as soon as I aspire to share it, I realize it's gone.

The sea is similar. It would appear that each morning I walk the same stretch of beach bordering something that we humans have named 'the Atlantic.' But it seems too easy to think I'm revisiting the same place I was 24 hours before. Nothing about the sea is constant. Not the light. Not the color. Not its movements. Not its sounds or its formations.

Kneeling by the sea at daybreak today, I felt as close to a teacher as I've ever felt. Unrelenting. Patient. Persistent. Demanding. Revealing. And easily overlooked. For as long as I can recall, I've been equally drawn to the sea and terrified of it. Living so close to it and having such regular interactions with the sea has been intense. I'm reading Natalie Goldberg's book, "Long Quiet Highway: Waking up in America." In it she shares parts of her experience with her Zen teacher. I can't help but have similar sentiments about the sea.

One can walk by the sea each day and never really experience it. One can meander down a coastline lost in their own world of troubles, gripped by their personal storyline, compelled to plan out their day, their week, their life. Meanwhile, the sea swells, lifting quietly and sharing secrets from lands far away, speaking tales of winds that caressed its surface and creatures that stirred its depths. Some days the surf is dark and brooding like a hungover cabby daring you to ask if he's available for your fare. Other days, the same waters are inviting and pleasantly playful, lapping at your toes and ankles.

No matter how the sea presents, she invites me to open my eyes and ears. She teaches me about birth and death, about constant transformation, about letting go, yielding and holding.

Two mornings ago I came to the end of the beach and there was an unfamiliar form. Onslow and Ben were curious but cautious, none of us recognized this dark form coming out of the sand near the waterline. An adult dolphin's body had washed ashore. Its eyes were empty. Its tongue protruding from its mouth. I'd never seen a dolphin in real life. I felt like I should be more sad because it could so easily take on my projections as a preferable form of life - I grew up watching 'Flipper' and here Flipper lay, dead at my feet.

How many thousands if not tens or hundreds of thousands of examples of death have I passed walking along the beach each day for these past 2 months? Simultaneously, how much life is being given birth to each moment within our seas? Each wave dies into the sand. Each cloud surrenders its rain to the land and then births new life from the ocean.

And how many ways do I try to hold on? How many thoughts do I harness in my attempt to freeze, manipulate, and maintain some semblance of control over my so-called life? The teachings of the sea are severe. She is so compelling. She is so fierce. She is so forgiving. Both yielding and unyielding. The truth is so many of us dream about living near the sea. I did. It's a big reason why we're here - I wanted to feel what it was like to live by the sea as an adult. The rest of the truth is that so few of us can receive what the sea is offering. Waking up by the sea each day is an invitation to wake up. And it's daunting. Each morning I have no choice but to walk down there and open myself up. This is changing me. The sea is having her affect on me. 

I listen to the rocks getting tumbled against each other on her floor, slowly becoming sand. 

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no getting away from my self

It's early morning. I wonder if my sister, Jane, isn't also awake and giving herself over to words on the screen. I like to think so. I like to think about companionship at this dark hour with the solitude of words.

I am very behind in writing. The last month has been full of stories and experiences. For whatever reason, I couldn't or didn't bring the energy together to capture any of it. A quick summary:

We departed Warner, NH after closing our home sale on August 15th. The closing was smooth and both Bradford and I felt lighter heading north to Ontario, the open road in front of us, some money in our bank accounts, 2 kayaks and 2 dogs, and friends along the way. An adventure awaited. We were scheduled to return to Warner on September 1st with a rented Uhaul to retrieve our remaining household items and move them to our new home space in Little Compton, RI. (A note of explanation - just prior to closing on our home we were hired as caretakers for the family of friends we have in Rhode Island.)

On the surface, all was well. I was enjoying the freedom of time and space to transition from our life in Warner to the world of experience that awaited us in Little Compton. Underneath, however, my system - my muscles, my breath, my skin and cells felt wound so tight; spring loaded from the number I do on myself when I'm amping up to get things done (like a move and a home closing). Usually, a good road trip is enough to help me unwind some of the tensions I create. In all honesty, these 4 weeks later, I still feel like I'm unwinding.

We spent those two weeks visiting family and friends, mostly in Canada. A few days with my dad and Jean, a few days exploring the 1,000 Island area along the St. Lawrence River, a few days with my mom in her beautiful space on Crowe Lake, a few days on the water in Georgian Bay (where I got to see dear people from my youth), and then a trip through Ithaca, NY to a weekend near Lancaster, PA connecting with Bradford's mom and her husband, George. We saw some beautiful places, many beautiful faces. We had some tremendous food and paddled some gorgeous water.

But still, my body and mind weren't unwinding very well. I was struggling with myself (more tension) to let go and relax, enjoy myself and the freedom to just be. Poor Bradford was stuck for hours in the pickup truck with me. It's compelling to wonder what goes on and why my system is habituated to such tension and stress, why I have such a difficult time simply sinking in and enjoying life. Even now, I sit on a soft couch in the pre-dawn darkness, sipping wonderful coffee with the sounds of waves crashing into my ears from the beach that lies just a short walk from my new home, and I can feel tension in my muscles and breathing. Nothing is stressing me externally. Nothing is challenging my wellness or safety or even my comfort. Nothing is demanding anything from me. But I'm primed like a pump, seemingly unwilling to simply surrender in the goodness of life.

I create all the stress internally. I manufacture this tension as if my very life depends on it. I can feel and see the long history of this tendency. I can see how I've pressurized myself for decades to be on top of things, managing details, controlling my environment, performing. I joked with Bradford yesterday morning, with tears flowing down my cheeks that someone could give $10M dollars, a beautiful space in which to live, the company of loved ones, and no demands and I still wouldn't be able to relax and simply be happy and enjoy myself (though I'm willing to try this experiment).

I look for (and see) problems everywhere. These so-called 'problems' give me something to push up against, something to inform and prove my so-called 'existence'. Even while a part of me wants to let go of my illusory sense of being a separate something, another part of me seems to be rallying all the troops to fight a good fight and find foes everywhere - as soon as there appears to be a problem, there's an ego, a false self who feels infused with substance. The more sense of self I feel, the less peace. No surrender, no joy.

And so, even in paradise there are mosquitoes. And everywhere I go, here I am. The good news… while the tension might feel all-consuming sometimes, the eyes that can see this pattern are clearer. It's getting harder and harder to take myself so seriously. It's a process, after all and there's no need to make another enemy over what's still unwinding, still disappearing.

the generosity of space

I feel disoriented. I feel depleted. I feel a bit displaced. I'd love to say that all this letting go and moving from one adventure to another has been effortless and easy but it's not true. There's enough of 'me' (old patterns of thought, action, and belief) still living in this Martha body-mind that the week or 10 days leading up to our departure from 186 Iron Kettle Road in Warner, NH were demanding and difficult. 

burning up some symbols of our experience

It's been a big, exhausting period of high energy output. We're out. We've officially sold our home and we're in a bardo between worlds. Most of our belongings were sold or given away. Some have found their way to a storage unit awaiting relocation. Other objects, mostly tools, find themselves housed in a utility trailer parked at a friend's home.

This morning I was finally writing in my journal and getting caught up with myself. I haven't made time for this kind of indulgence for nearly two weeks. I reflected on feelings of sadness that in all the to-do'ing and planning, organizing, and strategizing leading up to our move, I failed to really sink into the experience of being present with the space that was dissolving around me.

The space of 186 Iron Kettle is no longer there in the same way. A new space is happening there, growing out of the one left behind by the four of us (Bradford, the dogs, me) and all the people that showed up in that space over the 2+ years we called it 'home.' As I moved through my last meetings with clients in early August, I was aware of saying 'goodbye' not so much to the humans as I was saying 'goodbye' to the dimension of connection that was fostered in the space between us and around us.

Space seems to have an energy all to itself, perhaps not so different from a human or an animal. Over the years, Bradford and I gave ourselves to the space through cleaning, clearing, designing, building, and creating. More significantly, however, the space gave itself to us. The offerings were less tangible but maybe more enduring. Space seems to draw us into an experience of absolute connection. A person doesn't exist outside of a space and yet most of us take this kind of generosity for granted.

the loaded rigs

I can't capture the sense of space I felt at 186 Iron Kettle for you in words. I can't capture it through images. Hours spent sitting on the front porch listening to the wisdom of wind through the tree's high branches to the west of our property. Being enveloped in the truth of 'no-time,' watching the skies revision themselves through cloud and color from a rocking chair looking north. Light being momentarily caught in a diamond of dew holding carelessly to a lilac leaf like falling didn't matter. Nothing I write will deliver something true to you about the space I was living in nor help you understand how this space affected me.

I don't feel sad so much because our time on Iron Kettle is over as I feel regret for not taking more moments to sink in and lose myself in the experience of its dying. Oh, that I could fall more deeply into love with every passing, ephemeral experience - see that it's never coming back and allow myself to be forever altered. That's a lot to ask for but the rewards make it worthwhile.

Fortunately, our last day living in Warner found us driving to Grafton Pond before sunrise. If you ever have an opportunity to paddle out on a quiet lake, free of motors, in the moments before dawn, don't pass it up. Allow yourself to paddle out and be swallowed by the fullness of silence. Allow yourself to get lost in the weight of emptiness. Fill yourself with the abundance of space as it reveals its generous gifts.

If the space of 186 Iron Kettle Road can hear me, I say 'thank you.' To you I will dedicate more presence, more awakeness, and more awe to the beauty that is always being offered up from the world around me.

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flying the freak-flag!

happy whack jobs

This morning I turned back the clock. I stepped inside an earlier time in my life and I looked around.

Writing is my thing. I'm not necessarily a skilled writer. I'm a happy writer. I use writing to explore an experience. I use writing to both hide and reveal myself. And there's a side benefit to writing, it helps me remember when remembering is what I want to do.

My sister, Jane, has an outstanding memory. My memory feels porous in contrast. Photographs and words allow me to recall something I once experienced - whether my recollection of facts is accurate, the words help me return emotionally to another time and place.

This morning I called up old writings, ramblings which took the form of my previous blog. I was quite taken to step back into parts of this earlier life. I felt generous towards myself. While journal-writing can be viewed as self-indulgent, I've made a habit of it since early adulthood. I like my ramblings because I like the spirit of the soul whom I see through the words and images. I like how earnest she sounds.

If you were to click on writings from 2011 and 2012, you would read stories from another time - looking for and buying a home, moving into private practice out of said home. Now, today, I'm in a different place - a place of letting everything go. 

I feel embarrassment rise up. The critic in me looks at my decisions over the last 3 years with hardness, holding me to a standard that I'm not sure I've ever met. Its voice sounds eerily like my father-in-law's: "what kind of loser buys a house and sells it 2 years later?! you're a whack job, building a successful business and turning it around and leaving it behind! What is wrong with you?!"

Maybe this 'standard' I've been holding myself to is not so much a standard as it is simply one way of being in the world. Maybe stable, stalwart and settling into one experience is not the way this creature I am moves. Perhaps "success" can be defined in many ways. 

Certainly my resume reflects moving, shifting, engaging new and different experiences. Is that wrong? My financial status doesn't so much shine with sturdiness as it does being freeform. And as we purchased and moved into this beautiful home 2.5 years ago, I was yielding to an idea of becoming rooted in one place. This idea might have been a fantasy. However, I don't believe it was a mistake. In the last few years, I've been given so many beautiful moments of falling in love, feeling into a space, meeting myself through a new endeavor and being altered by the people who came to this lovely environment for support.

I fear I'm falling prey to the impulse to defend myself to my own inner critic - likely this will only cause it to have more credence. Simply, perhaps the success of a life is too narrowly assessed through balance sheets and income statements. How do financial statements accommodate learning (answer: Education & Training Expense)? How do they reveal the innumerable moments of feeling moved to tears by beauty? Where do financial statements reflect moments of inspiration? Laughter? and Love? I look to my right and in the early morning light just breaking into dawn, Onslow is curled up and dreaming. I realize that adopting this lovely being came directly out of our decision to buy a property that could host his happiness and health. I wouldn't be who I am in this rocking chair today without him. How do I account for Onslow on a financial statement (answer: Food Expense, Veterinary Expense)?

relaxing at 'home'

And so, today marks my last day in private practice - at least private practice as it is generally defined (seeing 6+ clients in a day within an office setting for an hour at a time). The last couple weeks I've been closing up with the people I see in my practice and I've felt so moved, so altered by how they have shown up in my life. In showing up with their stories of pain, with their vulnerability and sense of being lost or frozen in fear, I have been forever changed. While many have expressed their gratitude that I have in some way helped them, I don't think I have been able to convey to any of them what their presence has done for me.

While my income statement reflects how I was paid for my time in the last couple of years, it in no way reveals what really happened. To these wonderful and beautiful souls I devote my ongoing journey. Sounds paradoxical. Some people would say that I could better express my devotion by continuing to work with them as their therapist. But that's not the way I view life. The practice and the property began to feel like items of clothing that no longer fit very well; like a sweater or a pair of pants that felt right and comfortable for a few years but through changes in my body no longer clothed me naturally, binding in some places and gapping in others.

Of course I feel a little unsettled sitting here today, not knowing where we will be living at the end of next week nor from where my next paycheck will come. What I saw as I re-read some of my writings from years ago is that I've been 'here' before; I was living in contact with the unknown with $9 in my bank account just before it was revealed that I was about to go to Portugal to learn massage and then begin to practice in New London. Life generally asks that we let go of that which we grip before it can gift us with new delights.

happy to be your helper!

A 'friend' from my practice gave me a beautiful card yesterday as our session came to a close. In it was written: 

Sometimes life takes you down new and unexpected roads.

This too is part of the ride.

Remember, when nothing is certain, anything is possible.

There's good evidence to suggest I'm a flakey, unstable whack job. Maybe the world needs more of us. Sounds rich from the voice of a so-called 'trained professional.'

So, here's to all the friends I made on this part of my adventure! May each of us find our own way to embrace and expose our inner freak.

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yard sailing

This weekend I experienced my very first yard sale.

I don't know that I've ever even stopped by someone else's yard sale. I certainly don't recall my parents hosting one as we were growing up and moving around. I'm not sure what became of all the stuff we let go of as we relocated from one place to another. I don't think much of it moved with us. Unlike some folks I know, I can't pull out an item of clothing, a toy, a school trophy, or a memento of my childhood. Over the years, I've rescued some photos and stored them in a shoe box; proof that I existed on one level even as I now consciously experience the motion towards disappearing on another.

And hosting a yard sale I whole-heartedly recommend to all!

There's nothing like sifting through all the things one thinks of as valuable and important in their life and determining if an item is really worth maintaining, dusting, packing, boxing, moving, storing, and even insuring. I saw that most of my possessions remained in my life because I never looked at them very closely, I never assessed their true personal value. Even though most people would describe me as a minimalist, there are places in my home which accrued un-seen objects like dust bunnies under a couch. Closets, cabinets, basement shelves, drawers, and garages - these are the areas where we don't see things. Books can build up, words are never again read. Kitchen wonders migrate to the back of a cupboard, their usefulness non-existent. A t-shirt I once believed brought out the color of my eyes is permanently creased having migrated to the bottom of a stack; the t-shirts I actually wear make up the top quarter of the pile.

Such an interesting experience to ruthlessly go through everything I own and decide to keep only the things that are either: a) used on a regular basis; or b) cause my heart to swell with their beauty.

My sister, Corry and her partner, Dave were generous enough to travel down to New Hampshire this weekend, their visit timed with our moving sale. They both offered a ground and a presence to an experience which could have overwhelmed me both physically and emotionally. Corry has a natural ability to arouse another person's interest in something as well as a gift for beauty that allows her to stage things in a pleasing manner. The outside spaces of the home: the decks, patios, porches and garage became showcases for the stuff I was ready to release. 

Once upon a time, these items were shiny bits in my personal view-finder; I saw in them something that I thought would make my life 'better' in some way;  more comfortable,  more beautiful, more efficient, or just easier. I held onto them because I feared that letting them go would cause me some form of suffering or lack. Over the years, this fear combined with inertia (and too many hiding places) culminating in an experience of heaviness and weight. Rather than make my life better, most of this stuff contributed to a feeling of being trapped, stressed, limited and loaded down.

Now I wonder if there isn't a correlation between holding onto stuff and holding onto beliefs. I wonder if the stuff in my life didn't serve as an anchor for the ideas I have about who I am, who I think I should be, and what is possible in Life. I walked around the perimeter of our home on Saturday in the morning hours before the yard sale began and I saw "me" everywhere. Objects held wonderful memories, of course, but there was more than just memories, there was a sense of my self and an attachment to a moment or an idea. Without knowing it, I had been accruing countless notions and stories of who I thought I was at various moments in my life and storing them like nuts for the winter in case, at some future date, I wanted to return to them and re-enliven their potential.

The day moved smoothly. After only an hour, I changed gears and moved from just wanting to sell things to people to more fully meeting a new person. It seemed a part of my history was resonating in this person's present moment. Rather than just making money, I began to feel feverish about nothing being left behind; it wasn't just that I didn't want to pack up remaining objects, I didn't want to hold onto them any longer - their time had passed. 

It was also unbelievably gratifying to watch folks light up. "How much for the angel statues? My granddaughters will love them." "Perfect. I'm happy you found them." No need for money to change hands. My weight had become their uplift. Something that felt heavy to me became a source of joy for another - how magical is that?

I suppose I used to believe that the stuff of my life and my past could help me understand who I am. By holding onto it, I could see 'me' reflected all around me. I wonder now if I'm not more clear about who I  really, really am after releasing it. I would wish this for all. I'm not against consumerism. I enjoy acquiring objects that move me in some way. Perhaps objects reflect something that moves in each of us at some moment in time. I enjoy sailing through this experience of Life with an open hand and an open heart, letting myself touch things and be touched by them. And letting go.

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my clan

In the process of disappearing, perhaps it's odd to discuss my history. This is a story, however, of discovering who I am through discerning what I'm not. For my sister's 50th birthday a week or so ago, I travelled via Montreal (retrieving my eldest niece, Alex) to Port Hope, Ontario. There was to be a gathering of the clan on Saturday, July 12th to celebrate Corry continuing to come into her own as she rounds the bend of the second half of her life.

The day before my departure I phoned my father. I wanted to know if he was okay with me storing a few belongings in his basement. Our conversation flowed into his curiosity about our future plans. I giggled nervously, admitted that Bradford and I did not yet know where we were headed after the closing of our home sale mid-August. I say 'nervously' because it's always been a bit edgy revealing to my father, in particular, that I don't know what I'm doing with my life. Much of the father-child relationship can be shaped around security, stability, and good planning and execution.

My dad surprised me with the sound of genuine delight in his voice; he reported that he was rather charmed by our unfolding adventure and that, given another opportunity to be middle-aged, he would feel drawn to a similar path. Tears filled my eyes. Once more I was humbled by the quality of unconditional acceptance that my parents have consistently offered me as a human discovering my way through Life. I know from my work as a counselor and from conversations with friends that not everyone is blessed with parents who are curious about their child as a separate and unique individual rather than hold expectations for them as an extension of their own personhood. A conversation with my mother earlier this year yielded a similar message: "Martha, you gotta know that I have no attachment to telling people that my daughter is a psychotherapist. I'm just happy that you're my daughter."

My clan is small. A mother. A father and his wonderful wife, Jean. Two older sisters and their offspring. Connections with cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents were cut short likely because my clan is/was nomadic. My sisters Jane and Corry have certainly been more steadfast geographically as adults than I have but I sense in them also a certain appetite for growing, evolving, change, and shedding skins. I had a brother who lived for a time in a re-outfitted school bus as well as camped out of his pickup truck with 2 dogs for years. He, like me, like my sisters, like my parents - he embodied the appetite for experiencing life, discovering adventure both within himself and outside his body.

I'm lucky. I'm very, very lucky. While convention impresses on us to stabilize, root, and settle down, the members of my clan find ways to push back in obvious and not-so-obvious ways. My father digests massive amounts of complex material on world economics, climate change, history, and cosmology and integrates it into profoundly insightful documents on how humans must re-vision their ways of being in the world. My mother dedicates herself to practices which keep her body, heart, and soul enlivened and growing through writing, loving, and dipping her body into deep, cold waters. Through their parenting and their professional paths, both Jane and Corry embody a pioneering spirit which holds possibility at its heart, even while they occasionally bump up against their own self-doubts and disappointments. Really remarkable beings.

So this is where I came from. I don't know where I'm going but I believe that it's a place too narrow for falseness and too clear for convention. The first half of my life I was all about becoming. The second shall be about shedding. My clan lights me in such a way that I can travel through small, dark places with no knowledge of my destination.

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so…. what now?

We received word this past week that the buyer's financing was approved. The sale of the house is looking pretty darn solid. Come August 15th, we'll be without a home. I'll lack an office space for my private practice. Bradford will be giving up his full-time work as a sub-contracting carpenter. By then, we'll have sold off most or all of our furniture, have downsized our possessions to some clothing, toiletries, a few books, and a couple of dog beds. I'll keep my laptop. We'll keep one or both trucks for moving around the world.

Feels weird. Feels surreal. Feels good. All of it.

I'm much more in contact with the unknown, the can't-be-known. So much of my life I've devoted tremendous energy to figuring out what's next. First this, then this, then that. Now, I sit wondering and waiting to see what arises. As previously mentioned, in the past I've offered my current experience precious little in the way of true attention, everything simply leading to the next thing. A hope that by anticipating the next thing, chaos won't ensue - life won't tumble out of control into tragic consequences (or even uncomfortable scenarios).

A consequence of this habit was that I found Life somewhat uninspiring. I had my schedule, my systems and my structures in place and little room was left for surprise to seep in. Many people can relate to the premise of the movie "Groundhog Day," I'm no exception. I'd wake up most mornings and go searching in my mind for the day of the week. As soon as I found it, the space of awareness was filled with my understanding of what lay ahead of me.

I did everything in my power to make these pre-programmed routines as wonderful and comfortable as possible. I reduced my work schedule to 3 days a week, 6 hour days. I incorporated reading, meditation, running, kayaking, time in the woods, cooking, photography and writing. All sorts of 'good stuff.' Very little surprise outside of the occasional client canceling their session or the unexpected interface with a large mammal in the woods.

In my core, I felt alive. On the surface, I felt asleep.

I didn't see anything very different reflected in the people around me. Most of us migrate to schedules and predictable living. I noticed some people however, appearing to call up energy, albeit unconsciously by fabricating drama. I saw people exhausted by the 'unexpected' conflicts and dilemmas in their lives; nonstop demands to put out fires, draw swords, or wrestle tigers in the form of co-workers, relatives, and neighbors. And I wanted to avoid that way of feeling energized believing that most of it was self-created and kind of toxic.

I see that I have a fear of the unknown and this fear was snuffing out many possibilities and directions in my life. If an idea or experience fell too far outside of my idea of comfort, I backed off, reaching for my blankie in the form of this comfortable existence, this beautiful space. At the same time, I felt deeply disconnected from living.

I'm not interested in taking up sword-swallowing or busking on the streets of Boston (but, then again, I've never considered it). I'm interested in letting go of the shore that my boat has been anchored on for decades. I'm interested in what the currents are doing, how they're moving and where I could go.

From a practical perspective (I'm still Martha after all), Bradford and I are exploring professional caretaking as a transitional experience, one that would provide a roof over our heads and a place to land. I've built a small webpage to articulate our offerings as two middle-aged, somewhat skillful and overly-educated people who are wanting to be of service to others. We'll see what comes of throwing this fishing line out into the sea.

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