Two Years Ago Today

Paul and I met two years ago. His form first appeared as a black and white square – an email response to my Craigslist post. I knew, not where we’d go, but that here was a man wonderfully unlike any I'd ever met, online or off.

Only weeks before, I had come to appreciate how essential it was to be completely and painstakingly true to myself, ALL the time.

Is that sad, that it didn’t happen until I was 38? Or is it magnificient that it happened at all?

I came to appreciate also that what I really wanted in a partner was so specific, and so complex, I knew I would likely never find it. That said, it was the truth of what I wanted.

So I put a post up describing Exactly what I wanted. Very specific, but not about height and weight, more about capacity for joy and peace.

I don’t remember expecting anything; I just put that description out there and waited to see what happened.

A whole range of answers came. And then Paul.

The match was so exact, that we’ve joked since then that the post was titled, Dear Paul.

If that were not miracle enough, the beauty part is his continuous encouragement to me to remain completely true to myself in every moment, even when the relationship we’ve come to envision is on the line.

So, Dear Paul: thank you. I love you. Shouted from the rooftops of the internet, as it were.

Me and Sgt. Pepper and Belly Buttons

I danced to a CD of Sgt. Pepper this morning. I grew up dancing and singing to the vinyl album my father bought when the record came out.

In the liner notes, I discovered that the Beatles started recording the album on December 6, 1966. I was conceived four days later (yes, my mother told me; she knew she was pregnant when she woke up the next day). The album was released during my mother’s her third trimester, with me fully capable of hearing.

I love the idea that I was incubated right alongside this momentous, gorgeous music, and that I was fed by its sounds right up to my birth.

I like to imagine my pregnant mama dancing in the living room with my long-limbed papa, delighting in the new, amazing music.

Now where do belly-buttons come in? Well I’ve just discovered Paul Coelho (I know I know, where have I been?) and The Witch of Portobello. All his talk of navels – as the center of our bodies, of our earth, as connection to the Great Mother – was in my mind as I belly (-button) danced to ‘Within You and Without You.’

And so: forty years after my mother’s joy and music poured into me through my navel, my own joy and dance poured out from there.

Shivers up my swirling spine: a grounding, transcendent moment of connection to the deepest realities of beauty, rhythm, and belly buttons.

A moment that spilled out into merry laughter, and now, these words.

The Glory of humility

I’ve been working hard lately, getting things in place to send my book out to agents (more info on that soon). As I contemplate the likely ensuing cycle of anticipation, rejection, interest, disappointment and excitement, I’ve decided to prepare not just my pitch but also my state of mind.

This has led me to consider the practice of humility as a way of staying centered.

Humility brings me to some of my core truths, to wit: my best work comes through when I get out of the way; unwelcome outcomes often become beloved teachers; and I may only ever participate in a situation, never control it.

So then, how to stay humble when my mind swings between delusions of grandeur and fear of dismal failure? What brings me to that centering humility?

I am humbled by the people who love me, because their love reminds me I need not be anyone special; irregular old me is fine, best in fact.

I am humbled by the presence into which I pray.

I am humbled by the syncronicity that brings a friend to whisper in my ear the very words I most needed the very moment I read them, in an email written days before.

I am humbled by the miracle of being alive.

When I enter this space, gratitude follows like bright shadow. When I feel humble, everything feels like a gift.

What brings you a peaceful sense of humility? Does anything? Any suggestions on staying sane at times like these?

Sometimes beauty hurts

Running to make a commuter train connection recently, I was accompanied through the station by Eric Clapton's Tears in Heaven. That extraordinary song goes right through me, undoes me. I’d like to see it come off radio playlists. Clapton himself says he 'can't play it anymore' because he does not want to manipulate audiences unfairly.

Rushing for my train, I had a choice -- keep my word and my appointment and shut down my emotion, or slow down and listen and mourn.

I caught my train. But I don’t like making that choice. I don't want to be sheltered from the sorrow and pain of the world. But the sorrow and pain of the world are not mild entertainment.

I feel a rant coming on now, one about societal de-sensitization, the exploitation of suffering for TV thrills and advertising dollars and the potential resulting loss of outrage and compassion when it counts.

But that’s not why I’m here. This blog is not for ranting – it's for finding beauty.

Deep breath. There’s something my mother used to say, when one of us hurt ourselves playing. ‘It hurts Mama!’ ‘That’s good,’ she’d say, as she put the bandaid on, ‘if you can feel it, that means you’re alive.’

Does that sound slightly depraved? It was confusing enough to get us to stop crying.

That said, her words are true: I’d rather hurt than be dead, in any sense of the word.

Because more than mama told me, I’ve learned that the places where it hurts, are the places alive to joy as well.

So if Clapton riles me in the train station, maybe I'll just Let It Rain all over my afternoon blues. Click there and join me, would you?

Big Deal

Call me Pollyanna, naive, square even, if you must.

Though I still haven't decided who will get my vote in the primaries, I am thrilled that a woman and an African-American man are running for President.

Last year I worked with a group of gifted fifth-graders, all American, all of Chinese descent. They were quite certain that none of them could run for public office when they grew up. Why not? 'You have to be a special kind of person,' one girl told me. When I prodded some, it turned out 'special' meant 'a rich man who went to an expensive school.' I told them that while it really helped to have a lot of money and connections, the fact remained that according to the law, you only need to be born here to run for president. I think they believed me, though they gave each other curious looks.

Whoever wins this year, I like the idea that children in school are getting to see an election that includes more than white men. Has this been said enough? I haven't heard it enough. Most children, even many teenagers, will not pay attention to policy issues and campaign politics, but they will see the faces on the news and in newspapers. Some school teachers will even talk about the election -- imagine that. Obama's and Clinton's presidential candidacy will be a given to these children -- perfectly normal, rather boring even.

Big deal. So what. Anyone can run for president.