January 7, 2010 January 7, 2010

Squished Body Parts as Shamatha.

In Buddhism, shamatha is a form of meditation focused on holding, without intrusive thought, a single object in the mind for a desired period of time. (It is also known as “single-pointed concentration.”) Ever since quitting my real job in 2006, I have sought a path to a more compassionate life. Writing is part of that, bringing into focus my own beliefs, fears and obstacles in recognizing and empathizing with my fellow beings. A regular yoga practice teaches me acceptance and patience (with the added bonus of staving off, I hope, arthritis, dementia, osteoporosis and flab!) Reading is huge: others have tread the paths now before me, and studying their words allows me to learn from their insights. But while devotion to this, my personal trifecta of bliss, has completely transformed my life, it hasn’t quite resulted in an ability to look at myself and say – Aha! So here I am, Annie Maier, the person I was born to be. I am not, in Caroline Myss’ words, fulfilling my “sacred contract.” Because I absolutely believe in this theory, which suggests we are born with a specific responsibility to ourselves and others and much of our stress and anxiety (the second of which I have in frightening abundance!) can be attributed to not recognizing and/or meeting this responsibility, I’ve consulted an amazing and varied assortment of priests, astrologists, shamans, therapists and friends on how oh-how to figure out exactly what it is I am supposed to be doing. Though each of them was to varying degrees helpful, it was the astrologist, the wonderful Steve Nelson who can warm a room simply be being in it, who pointed out that I was in layman’s terms “stuck.” For those of you who study taroh, the place of my self-exile is the tower. For those of you disinclined to such mysticism, the tower can be seen as a symbol of coming change, chaos or an ill omen. My own someplace in between interpretation is that I have remained hidden, ensconced in a hand-picked, self-made fortress under the vastly misguided notion that I was protecting myself.

According not only to Steve but also my own internal wisdom and that of everyone else I’ve consulted, including the priest, what is missing on my path is meditation. Ah. So simple. So peaceful. So… impossible. Not impossible it can’t be done, but impossible, I haven’t despite hours of study and a world of desire made the commitment to take 10 lousy minutes out of each evening to contemplate my navel. But today… An epiphany. In, of all places, the radiology department of Presbyterian hospital, where I stood, naked from the waste up and (okay, disclaimer – this might get graphic) with my right breast sandwiched between a most improperly impersonal slab of stainless steel and a 6″x 9″ plastic tray. Really, you haven’t lived until you’ve placed at least one but preferably two of your most sensitive body parts into the careless, vice-like jaws of a self-propelled machine three times bigger than you as it steadily, slowly tightens its grip. Picture it then, envision me there - well, don’t envision me there, try some faceless, stick-figure woman and call her me - naked before a machine kneading my breast like Play-Doh, while the oh-so-kind radiologist (torturess, masochist, dominatrix, whatever they’re called…) said, “Okay, remember to relax and breathe!” HA!

Now, I don’t dread this day like many women I know. It is after all, just a breast and honestly the entire thing can’t take more than ten minutes. Squish, turn, squash turn times two and you’re out of there. In the meantime, everyone around you is feeling your pain and so breaking their necks and backs and schedules to take the time to be nice to you. All in all, it’s really a quite pleasant experience, minus the squishing.  That said, it’s not exactly a day at the beach either and I don’t necessarily look forward to this yearly putty-fest. (I won’t dwell on the fact, but I’m sure this has far more to do with issues about self-image than pain. I mean, if they were squashing my clothed breast, it would probably be a lot easier to take. Sad, but true.) Which leads to the epiphany. Just as the machine rotates its first turn, a thought appears. How, I wonder, can I rise above this situation? And viola! Without further ado, I began meditating. First with my eyes shut, but then, because I was afraid some beatific, spaced out look might appear on my face and freak out the lady in the lab coat, with my eyes open. And I am happy to report – it worked. I was, briefly, transported. The room was warm, I had a drape over my soon-to-be exposed left breast and what the hell, didn’t even notice what was up with the right. And in that moment I knew – if I can will myself out of a situation like that – I can escape that damned tower.   

To Boulder with me, then. Following Allen Ginsberg and Anne Waldman and Jack Kerouac (my new hero – please please read The Dharma Bums) and my friend Celina Mincey out west chasing her dream and my daughter Lauren up north hunting down hers, into my sacred destiny.

With maybe a little navel-gazing along the way.

 

January 4, 2010 January 4, 2010

New Years, Non-resolutions and the Waiting Game

The general consensus in the media and around the web is that 2009 ended not a moment too soon. Being on the cusp of a new age (Aquarius), seems to have unglued not only our culture at large – beginning with the spectacular crash of our economy – but also any number of my friends. I am, it seems, on the lucky side. No illnesses, physical disasters or emotional meltdowns befell me. There were a few close calls, owing more to my general lack of human engagement than to any one occurrence, but nothing lasting and/or insurmountable. Beginning with Obama’s inauguration in January, my 2009 was a reasonable success, filled with the usual amount of upheaval and promise.

 Now it’s 2010. We’ve survived the waning darkness and are about to embark on a new decade. I’ve never been much for making resolutions, being of the belief that transformation can begin at any time, and have not made any plans for sweeping change in my life. I have goals, of course, and ambitions for my present and future. I want to be a better person – more compassionate, more aware, more present – and I want to do well in grad school. I’d like to write more, say more and maybe even publish more. I don’t plan on gaining any weight, nor losing any – though I wouldn’t complain. Getting my arms straight up over my head in yoga would be a bonus. Discovering the cause for the pain in my shoulder would engender a level ecstasy heretofore unheard of. But I’m not holding my breath. And money… I don’t believe in money – which might explain why I don’t actually have much of my own – but maybe there’s a “regular” job in my future. Who knows?

 These are not resolutions, however. They’re intentions. Some I know I will accomplish, others I’m not so sure. (Writing and school are, barring any unexpected brain hemorrhages, within my control. My shoulder, on the other hand, is up to some illusive combination of culprits and cures, including but limited to the gods of aging bodies, my chiropractor, my yoga teacher, my commitment to Qi Gong and exercise and the amount of time I spend hunched over my computer.) I’m not putting myself on a deadline, and I’m not promising anyone, including me, progress. I’ll just take it a moment at a time, doing what I can where I can and accepting the rest. My body is a remarkable tool, letting me know when I can rest and when I need to do more. If I remember to listen, it’ll be a great year.  If not, well…

As for waiting – there’s been no word from Naropa. Registration starts today, but I can’t access their web-reg until they issue me an ID and password, which they won’t do until Wednesday. Classes begin on Monday and I have no books, no classes, no way to move forward. I’m doing everything I can to breathe through this delay, trying to trust the process and not question why in the hell they’d make me wait until Wednesday to register for classes while telling me I’ll be screwed if the ones I need are full. Ah! An opportunity - my first of 2010.  Breathing in, breathing out. In… Out…

Happy New Year!

December 28, 2009 December 28, 2009

Holidays, Birthdays and Distant Longings

My number one follower, advisor and critic assures me that no one will ever read my blog if I’m not more consistent.  Part of me agrees -hibernation isn’t all that exciting after all, in bears or in blogs. And anyway, what kind of writer am I if I allow a lack of inspiration to affect motivation? But see, that’s where another part of me disagrees. I could show up day after day, writing with or without direction – but isn’t that what a journal is for? And who in their right mind would want to read such drivel? There might be a pithy observation from time to time, maybe even a juicy bit of personal confession, but for the most part, my internal musings are pretty lame. So, I’m torn. (This isn’t an unusual state for my brain to be in; I spend way more time going back and forth with the voices in my head than I do conversing with live people.) To daily blog or not to daily blog?

Anyway – onward. The holidays are over. Cards have been sent, gifts have been opened, food and alcohol have been consumed. Lauren is back in Maryland, my husband is back at work and I am back in front of the page. And what conjurings appear this 28th day of December? Well, yesterday was my birthday. Though I no longer count the years, I still enjoy the bit about presents and cake. I won’t go into the whole boring spiel about close-to-Christmas birthdays. Suffice it to say it is all true. Growing up, my parents generally marked the occasion of my birth with a Christmas present, wrapped in Christmas paper and handed over on Christmas day. As an adult, things don’t always feel so different. One year, my husband, daughter and I were on vacation and forgot the day entirely. When AOL reminded us, (“Hello Annie! Happy Birthday!”) Billy ran out and bought me a Ho-ho and stuck a match in it. They had to sing really fast to avoid setting the hotel room on fire. Yesterday was better. We went to lunch at my favorite place (Intermezzo in Charlotte.) and then saw a movie. There was no cake (no one understood why the idea of sticking a candle in a three-day old Christmas cupcake upset me), but there were presents, and my daughter, for the first time ever, picked out a card just from her! Nice touch that. Plus, I think she reminded my brother because he remembered for the first time in years. Which is all to say – it’s not the birthday that matters, it’s feeling like people care. 

Which brings me to distant longings. Lauren was able to come home for Christmas – the first time she’s been here in close to a year. We had a wonderful time, baking and shopping with my mom, baking and laughing, baking and talking about life. The only downside was not being in Maryland. This wasn’t so bad in itself - Maryland is a bit frightening at any time of year, but especially in December when the sky is a sloping gray and the air is either cold and dry or cold and sodden. What was bad was not being with the rest of our family. Particularly my family. My brother and I have always been close in the way of the troubled children born to troubled parents. Although Eric isn’t one to call or write or even talk to me when I’m in the same room, he is the only other person in this life who can understand my childhood. Nearly two years separate us, but in many ways I feel we are twins. Not in looks – Eric favors the Rizzos while I am Shirley through and through - or temperament. And certainly not in ambition, but in something deeper. Something I can’t even begin to explain. Just hearing his voice can lift, or shatter, my day. Unfortunately, there are hundreds of miles between us – mentally, physically, philosophically. Staying close, loving someone despite distance, is damned difficult. Particularly when that someone would rather kiss a snake than pick up the telephone. I keep at it not only because he is my brother, but also because I have a guilty conscience. Eric has Parkinson’s. I should be there, but I’m not. I’m here where life is sunnier, warmer and easier than it ever was in Maryland.

December 2, 2009 December 2, 2009

Home, Black Dots and History

Being in Maryland this past week, I was reminded of two things: how much I miss my family and friends and how depressing I find the area of my birth. Prince Georges County is perhaps the most misbegotten stretch of suburban decay in all of America. Buildings sag and crack, cars rust and whine, roads heave and buckle, strip malls fade and eventually fall down only to be replaced by newer, no less decrepit generations. And everywhere you look people appear stricken. miniature mirrors reflecting their inanimate surroundings - mothers frown in line at the grocery store with raw-faced toddlers at their sides; men idle on sidewalks and at gas stations, arms and faces as slack as forgotten laundry; students, city workers and tourists watch for trains with heads bent low over damp newspapers and battered cell phones. Overhead, the sun refuses to shine, hung low in a sky laden with sadness and unshed snow.

And yet, it is home.

Although I don’t actually like Maryland, I’m comfortable there in a way I’ve not been able to replicate since leaving in 1995. I’m not sure, and it would take hours of therapy I can’t afford to find out, but I think this has more to do with my present life than my past. Although not rural, my current house in Fort Mill, South Carolina is miles from any type of excitement. My neighbors, all younger, perkier and blonder than I’ll ever be, have toddlers and responsibilities I can barely remember much less relate to. We speak, but superficially. Friendship is, it seems, out. For entertainment, I drive half an hour to meet other writers, go to the movies and take piano lessons in Charlotte. Yoga is twenty minutes away, as is Qi Gong and the nearest coffee shop – which because I can’t stand the silence of an empty house, is where I work. About the only thing I do that doesn’t burn half a tank of gas is cook, garden and play Super Mario.

Maryland is different. I was born there, went to school there, worked got married had a child lived there for 32 years. In addition to my brother Eric and his family, my aunt and uncle are there, as are my cousins, neices, sisters-in-law and several good friends. I still go back to my old job, drive by my old house, buy soap at the Smile Herb Shop and eat barbeque at Red Hot and Blue. Although the area is depressing – it’s in a way I’m familiar with. A Rizzo/Shirley relatives-living-in-trailors sort of way. That’s where the past comes in. My father (a Rizzo) was a hard-working man of great compassion and lousy judgement. He was also the most unlucky person I’ve ever known, starting with the day he was born as an only child to parents obsessed with children and ending the day he died a wrenching, painful death. Still, my brother is a close second. In spite of being warm, funny and smart – he never found his niche and so he flounders. As he stumbles about looking for a purpose in this world, drunk drivers smash into his car, termites infest his termite-proofed house and strays from three neighborhoods down limp to his door bearing diseases and kittens and begging for food. His wife and kids love him, but it seems to be against their better judgment.

In an attempt to explain and thus refute his many misfortunes, Eric developed a theory about fate based upon a trio of dots. There are, in this theory, three levels of luck in the world, all with a corresponding dot. Red signifies really good luck, the kind associated with fame, fortune and a good chin. Tan signifies reasonable luck, insuring that the bearer will land a decent job, marry well and sire/birth talented though not exceptional children. Black dots, Rizzo dots, signify horrible luck – leading to dead-end jobs, various forms of mental illness and/or jail. According to Eric, all Rizzos labor beneath the black dot. Although no Rizzo can aspire to a red dot, they can – as I did – marry one and thus attain tan status, increasing the likelihood that drunk-drivers, termites and starving kittens will pass them by.

Eric’s theory has, over the years, proved remarkably reliable, one might even say self-fulfilling, with the only exceptions being our children – all of whom have genes only lightly tainted by the stigma of the black dot. Eric’s oldest daughter is brilliant, with a Phd in molecular, biological, cellular something. His youngest is a gifted and determined writer. And my daughter, a lighting technician for Wooly Mammoth Theatre in DC, graduated from college and immediately ensconced herself in a profession she loves. That all three struggle mightily with the whole social thing is simply proof of their ancestry.

Perhaps my dottage (not to be confused with my dotage) is enough to explain the nearly unrecognizable lack of self-consciousness I enjoy in my hometown. We’re all misfits in this life – normal being no more than a out-dated, poorly defined word – but as with everything, there are degrees of deviation. Fleeing Maryland so long ago, I thought to leave the gloom behind. I don’t know, though. In trying to understand my love/hate relationship with the place I still call “home,”  I can’t help recalling the words of a friend, who once cautioned me against the lure and promise of escape.

“Just remember,” he said, “you can take the girl out of PG County, but you can never take PG County out of the girl.”

As much as the idea disturbs me – I think he might have been right.

Balance October 28, 2009

Lying sleepless in the middle of the night last week – I realized I had deleted an important part of my previous rant. In complaining about the fears that had suddenly overtaken me upon applying for MFA programs, I cut the following sentences: “Many people have been most supportive. I’ll blog about them next time, knowing full well I have already violated all rules of etiquette by whining first and being appreciative second.” I fully intended to paste that bit of wisdom back in (see the asterisk in the middle of the second paragraph?), but somehow did not. Just goes to show, being grateful was not on my agenda.

But today is, as they say, another day. In fact, the very next evening marked another day. That was when I received a call from Mr. Fred Lebron at Queens University, informing me I had been accepted for their MFA program. What a difference a few hours can make. The man had barely opened his mouth and I flipped from distraught to euphoric – trying valiantly to maintain some sort of outward composure while doing the living room shimmy.

After I hung up from Mr. Lebron, I emailed, Facebooked and texted everyone I could think of who would be even remotely interested. Which reminded me of how grateful I was. Not just for making it into grad school, but for my daughter – who has always been my most supportive (and brutally honest) fan. For my writing buddies in the Tuesday night critique group, who immediately met my fears with encouragement. For friends and family who offered support and encouragement. And for the opportunity to act upon a dream I’ve had since childhood.

I am indeed fortunate. And grateful.

 

Same Women, New Roles August 29, 2009

 

August 27, 2009

 

Helping my daughter pack up her apartment in Manteo, NC to prepare for a move to Maryland over the weekend marked yet another milestone in my ever diminishing role in life as a mother. That makes the third this year – many more and my mommy gene, which has already shrunk to the size of a malnourished pea, will be unrecognizable from its once robust self.) Compared to the previous two events, one being her college graduation in May and the other, a mere fortnight later, her wailing the words “wine, man, mistake” into the phone from 2100 miles away without a trace of irony, this latest seems relatively minor. How else to explain the blasé attitude of everyone around me? No one, not even those directly related, seems to understand the import and effect of this change. Not my husband, who simply pats my head and says, “Poor Annie,” nor my daughter, who pats my head in exactly the same way and says (in a tone more pleased than commiserate), “Poor li’l Mommy.” Others – to whom I turn but don’t generally rely on for emotional support and it’s a damn good thing – are just as clueless. My mother, who never wanted to be a parent in the first place and so cannot understand how liberation from one’s child could be anything but cause for lengthy celebration, tells me to get over it. My brother, whose daughters, at the ages of 20 and 28, still live at home, tells me I’ve always been too close to Lauren. (That is, he says, the downfall of birthing but one child.) Even my friends, many of who are in the same situation and so seem to understand but are, like everyone else, busy with their own milestones, greet any attempts at self-absorbed whining on my part with tales of their own woe. Then there is my husband’s family, important to this tale because in the process of moving away from her parental home, my only child has moved closer to that of my in-laws.

But back to the weekend:

I spent most of Friday afternoon weeping. In between I stripped Lauren’s bed here at home, washed what few items of adolescent-era clothing that still remained in her closet, packed up a few books and folded it all into giant plastic trash bags. The next day, her father and I drove seven hours through a driving, eternal rainstorm, spent the night in an overpriced (but lovely) inn in Manteo, got up at 8am to help her pack up her VW Beetle (in the continuing rain) and then treated her to a hasty lunch, after which she said goodbye and headed for Maryland – land of her birth and home of several generations of Maiers – not one of them her mother.

I understand, of course, that all children grow up and move away – that is after all what we raise them to do. If they can’t we worry over whatever issue(s) makes autonomy impossible and if they don’t we bitch about their reluctance to be responsible adults. And Lauren has always been frighteningly independent, starting at age three when she informed me, quite cheerfully, that she would be moving out as soon as possible. But it’s not like she simply headed north for an apartment close to her job or a room in some random stranger’s house – she’s actually living with her grandmother (and aunt and ten-year-old cousin). Now, I adore Billy’s mother. At 89 years old, she still follows the Baltimore Orioles, keeps a lovely garden and works one day a week at an auto parts store. My niece, Anna, is also extremely high on my list of favorite people. And though my relationship with my sister-in-law is a bit stickier, I trust her implicitly with my child.

Except that my child isn’t a child. She’s a young woman who has, for the last five years, lived on her own, coming and going and dreaming at will. Aside from school, she’s lived in England, traveled to Scotland, Greece and Turkey, spent two summers in Brevard and one on Roanoke Island. She’s stretched and grown in ways that amaze me. And make me proud. And I cannot stand the thought that anything might come between her and newfound independence.  

I know from experience that the Maiers, for all their warmth and loveliness, are a straight-laced, righteous lot, following all rules (particularly those of the Catholic church – which Lauren, her father and I have studiously avoided for several years), and just as eagerly upholding them. Which leaves me torn: Even as I let Lauren go, I have an overwhelming desire to protect her, as I always have, from those who say “No.” Not no you can’t stick a pen in that socket, or turn your music so high grandma’s ears bleed or move that guy into the basement. But no you can’t run, leap, stretch, try, fail, fall, hurt yourself. No you can’t google Wicca, talk to strangers, walk to work. I want to protect her from what Joseph Campbell calls “Thou Shalt” (as in shalt not); from religious repression, institutional dogma, cultural sophistication and societal demands for conformity. From caution and hesitancy and empty obligation. I want to spare her the suffocation of my own youth (and even adulthood). I want her to be a decent, kind, productive human being, but I also want her to continue to grow in as many directions possible. So while part of me, the mature-Mommy part (remember, it’s shrinking!) is grateful that she will have a safe haven in Washington and that she will get to spend time with her grandmother, aunt and niece at this stage in all of their lives, another part, a larger part, wants her back on her own, safe in the knowledge that nothing, nothing is more important than her dreams.