home, finally September 15, 2009

25 days ago I moved into this house, a rental in the perfect location, lots of space and windows and hardwood floors, a place to practice. It was exactly what I wanted.

25 days later I’ve found a house I want to buy, nowhere near here, with smallish rooms but a righteous kitchen. It’s exactly what I didn’t know I wanted.

The house I’m in now is an old house with great bones, but I can’t make it mine. I kept thinking if I owned this place there’s so much I could do with it. I could turn it into something great. I’ve been carrying a paint color card (soothing green tea) for weeks, even though I know I can’t paint. It’s in the lease.

This move never felt right. I saved every box and piece of bubble wrap and I didn’t unpack everything. And what I did unpack I didn’t necessarily put up. I kept waiting. I’ll wait until I’ve cleaned everything. I’ll wait until I’ve lined all the shelves. I’ll wait until pest control comes. I’ll wait until the weekend, no not that one, the holiday weekend, the next one, yeah, that one.  I knew I wasn’t staying.

This house needs someone to love it.  The back room, where I’m writing this, is spacious with windows on three sides. It’s the perfect place for practice: meditation, yoga, writing. But it’s not for me.

I’m not buying because it’s a good investment or a buyer’s market. I’m buying because I want a home of my own. Because that place I can make mine. No in-between place. Something to paint any color I want, even soothing green tea. I think I’ve found home, finally.

Asking permission September 6, 2009

Right now, in this moment, my life seems full of things I don’t want to deal with. That’s been the past couple of weeks. In a new place, still putting away the pieces of my life, but not seeing a whole, never seeing the whole. Each piece I put up still has a thin coating of regret and disappointment I can’t seem to wipe off:  I know this won’t bring me the life I want, I wish I had the life to use this more, I think I made a mistake.

The other day at the end of the yoga class I teach at work, my young colleague asked if I was teaching anywhere else. I’m not. I talked in circles about how I just hadn’t gotten around to it, blah blah blah. And then she said this: “Well if you really wanted to do this you’d be doing it. Right?”  I nodded my head because the affirmative was the only logical response to that question.

Let’s discover a passion! And then do everything to hide that passion, make it contingent on some other factor, make it a footnote in life instead of the major text. That’s the type of person I am. My desire for something automatically makes it off limits, unattainable.

I should at least ask, right? Honestly, what’s the worse that can happen?  “No. Who do you think you are? You can’t have this. What made you even ask? You’re so obviously not good enough!” All said in a look, or the avoidance of a look, thus confirming my lifelong suspicions.  Yes, I know this is insane. I know I can’t possibly know all of that. I know I can’t read minds. And I know I’m making assumptions, but… I am a self help addict after all and this is how we think. If I didn’t think like this I probably wouldn’t need to read all these books.

So how should I think instead? So I can step away from the fully loaded Kindle? I think I may have the whole asking-for-what-I-want thing backwards. I think I need to ask others to give me something, a job, love, joy. Instead I need to ask myself for more, ask myself for what I want, give myself permission.

Let me just say off the bat that this theory is wrong. Why?  The whole idea of asking for permission, for approval, is based on someone else – who knows more, has more, frankly is just better – giving it. That’s not me. Or is it? Maybe I know more, have more and am better than I believe. Maybe the first step is asking myself for permission – and giving it – before I go into the world and ask for anything.

That’s an interesting idea.

the old place September 2, 2009

I’m in a new place now, a new house, duplex, apartment whatever you want to call it.  It’s been two weeks of limbo, settled no where, when the new place still feels foreign and unknown, but the old place is missing every major element except the feeling that it’s home.

I loved my old place. It was a perfect apartment. Bright, shiny, new. Every convenience. Fireplace, balcony with a view of sky, ridiculous bathroom and closets. When I moved there I was coming off some of the best years of my life, the most fun years maybe I should say, finally in my late 30s having fun, and I thought that apartment would be the icing on the cake. But almost as soon as I moved in all the fun ended. I was sick while I lived there. Symptoms and surgeries and procedures and worrying. Allergies causing true illness instead of just annoyance or discomfort. How many times did my mother come from Florida to take care of me? But I was never sick in a way that truly threatened my life. I was sick in a way that woke me up.

I could never hate the old place, that onetime home of mine, because that’s where I lived when I found yoga. After all those self help books, all those years of reading one after another, feeling the fear and still not doing it anyway, focusing on the second chakra when it was the third all along, not loving anything that is and taking everything personally, becoming aware of some things but not others, and doing mostly nothing about either, yoga brought it all together.

In the bright, shiny, new, old place I listened to my own voice more than at any other time in my life. Listened to the truth of it no matter what it said, no matter the consequences. That doesn’t always mean I always did the right thing or the best thing or the brave thing, but at least I could listen even though I was afraid, terrified.  I heard what I am, not what I’m becoming or what I want to be, but what I am. Now I just have to admit it, say it, be honest about it.  Maybe I can do that in the new place.