Pleasure Notes

“I wish I loved anything enough to stay put,” writes Birdykins in yesterday’s beautiful post. I freeze in recognition. I understand the need to be mobile and free.

To fly.

To run.

To flee.

From them. From you. From me.

Of course, I read “anything” as… ANYONE.

But the statement doesn’t tell the whole story, or at least not mine. It leaves out the decision.

What I truly wish is that I could LET myself love anything anyone enough to stay put. But I can’t, or at least that’s how I interpret my track record of nonexistent relationships.

I am so terrified of love that I leave in the midst of it. I don’t save myself the broken heart. I simply deny that it’s real.

I say I don’t want to feel trapped. I’m the one who has built the cage.

I say I don’t want to change my ways. I’ve spent countless hours on therapists’ couches to do just that.

I say there is no one out there with whom I click. I don’t even try. And if YOU try? God help you. I’m gone before your smile reaches your eyes. Not that I would know that for sure, since I’ll never look you in the eye.

I’ve learned the hard way that the only way to conquer fear is to walk through it. You’d think I could apply that lesson in this arena. But I’ve become so COMFORTABLE living with the fear. I’m like the frog in a slowly boiling pot of water, lulled into feeling safe. I don’t recognize my story when someone else is in it.

So how do I write the next chapter of my life with a new theme, one that involves staying put for something, for SOMEONE? Actually, I have no fucking clue.

But I think it may start with stillness and a smile.

What do you love enough to keep you in place? Or are you still taking flight?

I was so moved and inspired by Jeanne’s post yesterday at The Barefoot Heart that I decided to write about my own knots. I am full of them, mostly on strings pulled too tight.

The emotional knots have manifested into physical ones, creating pinched nerves in my back and hand, making it painful to even breathe or touch. Then there are the intangible knots, in my chest and gut, that grow larger and more entangled with rising panic, fear, loneliness and self-pity. These are the ones upon which I constantly break proverbial nails attempting to untie. They are bound fast, the seams of the strings on which to pull no longer even visible.

I wish I could just cut them out, all these knots, but then I’d be left with threads too short and hanging loose, aimlessly. I’m sure there’s some brilliant remedy in the folklore of community wisdom for how best to untangle knots, emotional as well as physical, but common advice hasn’t yet done the trick. I meditate, I breathe deeply through the pain, I take action to address the real challenges with which I’m faced. Hell, I even got a massage. The knots just grow bigger and more obstinate, it seems.

Which is why I have been talking a lot lately about the weather, and pretty things, and walks around the lake. I don’t know how to– no, I simply don’t WANT to give voice to the mundane aches and terrors that have me constantly, and fairly unsuccessfully, holding back tears. It’s a record I’m so very tired of playing, and the needle has already etched such deep grooves in the tracks that the story jumps and skips, losing any melody that might once have been there.

my favorite knot

So I focus on the one external knot that gives me hope. The knot on my favorite tree. It might seem trite, that this malformation would lighten my heart, but it does. I look at it and think of all that it has withstood. I admire the beauty of its form. And I see that the tree still stands.

It rained last week, which I took as an excuse to barricade myself in my house. For days an entire day. I finally unchained my door to admit a friend who came bearing food and dvds. I got so crazy as to open up a can of soup that had been in the cupboard since 2002 instead of venturing out into the weather, finally understanding the true benefit of canned goods. I can only imagine the extremes to which people on the other coast have resorted to avoid the elements.

By Friday, my body was screaming to my mind, DO SOMETHING! MOVE!

I looked out the window, debating my choices.

by Agnes the Red/flickr

The forecast had predicted it would rain again. The sky was dark and cloudy. I was sleep deprived; the roar of downpours had kept me up half the night. I figured I had every reason not to twitch off the couch, much less stick my neck out into the world at large.

My body’s screaming got LOUDER!

I decided to risk the dangers inherent in venturing onto local roads during inclement moments; Los Angeles drivers transform into veritable drama queens when water darkens our asphalt.

I headed to the lake.

On the way to my habitual meditative retreat from urban chaos, a large raindrop shattered onto the surface of my windshield. It immediately became a civilization of droplets. I was struck by the pattern. Then I thought, I should turn back… But it’s only a drop… Another drop fell, a smaller one.

When was the last time you were soaked by the rain?

I realized I couldn’t remember the last time that had happened to me. My heart started beating a bit faster, in anticipation. Why not embrace the possibility of an experience I usually take pains to avoid?

I decided that if the skies should open up and drench me in harmless water acid rain, I would welcome it as an adventure.

The skies held their tears.

Instead, I shed some of my own. In awe.

The LIGHT took my breath away.

It was spectacular – crisp and flat. It transformed the glories of a three-dimensional world into a fanciful pop-up book of layers – the dew-dropped grasses sharply carved out and laid flat in front of the water, in front of the trees, in front of the tower, in front of the mountain, in front of the clouds.

Everything appeared new and special.

by chrislagarto/flickr

Then the crickets exploded into symphony, clearly rejoicing in the dampened earth and the scent of life that a hard rain brings to this town. I understood. And I was suddenly reminded of something I’d forgotten while slouched on my couch, obsessed with my navel…

Nature is my god. It never fails to restore me to my purest self.

When I make that connection, all other connections are possible. And I am happy.

What do you discover when you leave the house?

As often as possible, I take a long walk near a reservoir in the hills of Hollywood. I frequently see coyotes, deer, rabbits, and hawks; it is my foray into nature in the midst of urban chaos. Like a meditation, the journey clears my head. Frequently, I have an epiphany about some challenge in my life. I never thought my jaunt in nature would provide such an illuminating teaching metaphor, however, as has been shown to me the past few weeks.

About two weeks ago, we had a nasty bit of heavy rains and winds in what is normally sunny SoCal. During these storms, many trees were felled. Once such tree happened to land across the path I take, effectively blocking the trail. It is not a catastrophe, except for the tree. Everyone simply must walk around it, returning to the path after skirting the dead branches.

an obstacle

Every day for the past two weeks, I approached this tree as I headed up the hill at the beginning of my walk, lamented its mighty fall and nimbly avoided entanglement. And every day for the past two weeks, on my return down the hill, I would suddenly RUN INTO THE TREE and stop, startled. I would then chuckle at myself, backtrack a few steps, and go around the obstacle.

Every. Single. Day. Why?

I realized that, very shortly after beginning my walk, I stopped looking ahead. Instead, I looked at a spot on the ground about three feet in front of me and my thoughts were not on what my eyes were seeing. I also realized that I do this ALL THE TIME. It is a metaphor for my life.

I do not see ahead. I become preoccupied with what is directly in front of me. I lose sight of the bigger picture, of the whole journey. I do not keep my chin up.

On a whim, I tried a little experiment. I consciously walked the entire forty-five minute trip while looking straight ahead, at eye level. It was INCREDIBLY difficult. My eyes kept wanting to drop. My head kept wanting to drop. My chin kept wanting to drop.

I noticed that almost everyone I passed was looking only three feet ahead, at the ground. I began to notice that the same behavior is evident everywhere. We don’t look ahead. We don’t look out.

the view

But I saw so much beauty when I kept my chin up. A bird’s nest I would have missed. Shades of green only obvious at a distance. Contrasts of color and light. And it made me wonder.

How much am I missing of my life when I only look three feet in front of me and my head is down?

I’m going to continue trying to change the way I walk. I may step in a couple piles of dog shit, but I think that is probably the only down side to this endeavor. I’ll let you know if I have another epiphany.

How do you walk? And how does it reflect the way you walk through life?