Mostly Lists

a return to flow

Dear Reader,

Sometime, like lately, when I don’t know what to write about, or feel kind of stuck, I make lists. I discovered this when I was a little girl insomniac. I would try to remember who I was—quite literally— by writing down lists entitled “What I know.” It was a way of reminding myself that I had a point of view, a stance, an identity. These were perhaps my earliest love letters to myself. I destroyed my young journals years ago—it was a post divorce act of savagery, and now I wish I had a few of those entries.

This entry thought, dear reader, is less a formal essay, and more of a practice. I have found that I have been precious about my writing here as of late, and I want to get back to the original intention of this substack which was to let this place be messy. There will be typos. There will be things I wish I had said differently. I will, I hope, change my mind at least a few times.

Writing, like all art, is a snapshot, and every once in a while if we are lucky, an artist creates a piece of prose that feels timeless, that connects with something universally human, brings us to our knees, or throws us up into the wide open arms of the sky. When this happens it often feels like I didn’t even write it, that it was channeled. When I go back and read certain bits, I’ll think “Wow! Who wrote this?” And, most of the time, writing is not that precious. When I get entrenched in the longing for transcendence, I find that one of the best tricks I have for returning to flow is to keep naming things just like that little girl insomniac did so long ago: things I want to write about, things I am grateful for, things that I did over two fake summer days in Portland, Oregon. And then a magical thing happens, I remember that my whole life is an art project, and that it is in being awake and aware and curious about as much as I possibly can that helps me to survive this life on earth, that keeps my imagination churning, that lands me in a place of wonder and awe, and that sometimes even brings up feelings of joy.

So here we go. Feel free to practice with me.

PS:

Please come to India. It’s a good time to get some perspective and see things anew. Email me with questions. Yes. Everyone gets their own room.

And, please come to Mindfulness for Mental Health Round 2 beginning in April on Sunday evenings to make it more accessible. This group is one of the best things I’ve done as of late. Groups transform. Being witnessed matters. Community matters.

Love,

A

Things I have written lately because I have not felt like a writer: clinical notes, high school geometry cheat sheets for my son, journal entries, channeled writing from my guides, curriculum for the group I have been leading over the past six weeks, lists of my sons missing homework, a card, prayers, poems, therapy goals, grocery lists, gratitude lists.

Winter took me into it’s frosty palm and covered me up.

Things I did in Portland when it got sunny in February: a new tattoo, tried not to look at the news, saw a completely naked person sunning himself in Colonel Summers Park with no clothes anywhere around them, which had me imagining the way in which they must have set out from wherever clothes are kept—determined to increase vitamin D levels each minute they possibly could knowing the fleeting nature of the PNW sun. I watched the sunset on Mount Tabor twice, cleaned up my garden beds, planted the peas, made a few new friends, went to a backyard party, ate mostly salad and asparagus, fed my blueberries, got a run in, and feel ready for another few months of rain.

This morning the rain even felt different. Mistier. Less permanent.

These moments in February and March are what my family calls “The Worst Barbeque of Our Lives,” kinds of days because it was once on a day like this, when the kids were little, that my ex husband and I hosted a backyard barbeque that transformed itself into a drunken, tumbling, vaudevillian, fighting in the rose bushes kind of evening fueled by a batch of dandelion wine I had made myself the year prior which, when uncorked, tasted almost exactly like turpentine. A myth, a warning, a reminder of what the February sun, and poorly made alcohol can do to us all if we aren’t careful.

Things I want to write well written, forever and ever essays about: I want to write about creativity. I want to write about how my son crawled into my bed on Sunday morning and talked to me about quantum physics, multiple realities, and his feeling of crushing impermanence—a different kind of church we share that is somehow also transactional because it ends with me giving him a ride to Chipotle. I want to write about how I still (probably always) will have trust issues, and sometimes in the morning I lie down on the floor and beg for help, and for a second I feel less alone, more trusting. And then I want to write about how it goes away. I want to write about how in December, I had a few hours where I felt the bliss of loving even those things and people who have hurt me terribly. Like really loving them. Loving even the constantly open cupboard doors. Loving even the mess of my family. Loving even the broken front step, the strange shape of my roof line—villa villa kula—and the smell of my dog’s breath. And then, a few hours later, after the opening, came the closing—after the expansion, the contraction—and it was more painful than before because I had tasted freedom and wanted to go back. I want to write about clinging. I want to write about how guilty I feel for not understanding how to forgive. I want to write about how maybe forgiveness is actually more of a moment to moment practice than a permanent state, and then I want to write about the crushing sense of impermanence—again. I want to write about space instead of time. I want to write about how much I love this life. I want to write about how proud I am of my kids and how I am a hero for raising them up the way I did. I want to write about how Ursa said, “Mom, you’ve been a mother for 24 years. Day in and day out, caring for us,” and how he meant it. I want to write about boundaries and how loving ourselves makes them easier. I want to write about how writing down my dreams has changed me. I want to write about how when Veda falls in love I get scared.

Okay beloveds. Are you feeling stuck? Are you feeling too precious? Try a list.

Now I feel like I have a lot to write about.