I watched others read poetry last night
their hearts articulating visions
and painting emotions
through the canvas of space
My desire to make music
too
is stifled by the confines of words
because when I write
and look back at the sentences
I think
that's not quite what I meant.
December 29, 2009
December 26, 2009
Role-Playing
I know I wrote this blog entry a year ago...but it still holds truth to date. Oh Family Holidays at Home... :)
From 12/17/08:
I'm heading back home today. I use the word "back" both literally and figuratively. I am literally flying home today, as in traveling. But I am also heading "back" in the sense that I am going to regress. You see, I have noticed that every time my family is together, we regress into our childhood roles. When we're not home, we're mature, grown ass people. I'm in law school doing real law school things, my brother is in business school learning about accounting, and my sister is in college engaging in philosophical discussions about social constructs. And then we get home and every day is 1989.
Scene from 1989: I'm staring into the camera, doing a choreographed dance to a "A Tisket a Tasket." And I'm really good at it... I even adlib some "doo dah doo dahs" as I shimmy my shoulders and whip my chicken legs around. My brother proceeds to run across the screen, making weird noises and holding some type of concocted gadget. He's a ghostbuster, obviously, and he's fighting the bad guys. He throws a pillow in my face and yells "you got slliiiiiimeeeedd!" "BREN-DDANN," I shriek and elbow him in the stomach. Pause. I turn back to the camera with a sickeningly sweet smile and continue dancing. My mom laughs at me (not with me) and then scans the room with her camera, wondering aloud, "where's Shannon?" And sure enough, the camera scans to little Shannon, alone in the corner, rocking away on a plastic pony, talking to herself or one of her imaginary friends, it's too tough to tell. Soon after, the camera zooms in on my dad, and he makes a goofy face, which is kinda funny, but no one really laughs (it's better not to encourage him), and the scene ends.
Not much has changed almost 20 years later. I still seek validation from my parents and try to entertain them with my trivial accomplishments (look mom! I have a blog!). Brendan spends the day playing Xbox and seeking to live vicariously through a character in a video game (He's 27, but that's ok). My dad putzes around the house making horribly corny jokes that are almost funny. Shannon is in her room, doing her own thing, and giving two shits about the scenes unfolding around her. And my mom walks in and out of each room, all up in every one's business, making comments that she thinks are funny, and laughing at us.
Part of us can't help it. We are who we are! But then there are times when we're being OTHER than who our family THINKS we are, and our family still responds as if we're the same. For example, just recently, when my parents came to L.A. for Thansgiving, I turned to my mom, gave her a big hug, and genuinely told her how much I loved having them here. My mom looked at me and responded, "Ohhhhh, you suck up." I'm sorry....WHAT??!! "Mom!" I exclaimed, "I'm not seeking validation, I'm simply expressing my love!" To which my mom laughed.
Here's another example. I come home from exams. And I'm feeling pretty good about myself and slightly knowledgeable about the law. We're at the dinner table having a conversation about politics. Somehow the law comes up. I think to myself, this is the perfect opportunity to contribute a small piece of the plethora of knowledge I have accumulated this semester. So, I chime in something about civil liberties and tell my family a story about a prolonged detention of an American citizen in Iraq. It sounds like a pretty good law school story--legal jargon, political relevancy, and exemplary of a civil rights impact litigation case. The only problem is my speech dyslexia kicks in and I add, "You can read the guy's biopsy online." Pause. "Biopsy?" my family responds in confusion. I stare blankly. "Yeah." I respond, "biopsy." "You mean 'biography'!?" they shriek and laugh hysterically. "Oh Kerry..." they say patronizingly, shake their heads, and smirk in that "you're such an idiot, I can't believe you're in law school" type of manner. And suddenly, any small bit of pride I had in my law school education has disintegrated. And I've returned to the characterure of myself from 1989.
What's so interesting about this regression is that it is actually more symbolic than I would like to believe. It doesn't just happen with family, but it happens to each of us, every day of our lives. Each day we wake up and we regress into the role we played the day before. We wake up believing that we are a certain way. Because we have told ourselves so. Because our family sees us as so. Because our friends see us as so. Because society tells us we should be so. And somewhere along the line, we started to believe that we are fixed characters. And so we start playing the part. And suddenly, we are not just playing a character, but we ARE that character.
And then we label ourselves based on these traits: I am Kerry, I am a girl, I am 25, I am straight, I am a law student, I interned here, I will be working there. And then, we begin to tell others how they should perceive us: "Oh, I'm fun, but I don't do fun things," "I'm a morning person," "I don't like watching tv," "I always do this, but never do that," "I believe in this, but not that." And the next thing we know, we've created a nice little image for ourselves. And two things can happen, we cling to the constructed roles we've created or try to free ourselves from them.
But if we're not these roles, then who are we? That's what I'm trying to figure out. I'm trying to let Kerry just be Kerry, but struggling to free myself from the confines of constructed roles. I'm trying to learn how to work outside myself, but still remain connected to my inner-being. I'm trying to be just here, in the now, but find myself creating a persona for later.
When Buddha was asked, "What are you? Are you a God or a man." He responded simply, "I am awake." And I think at the start of each day, that's all we can ask ourselves to be. Awake. Nothing else, no one else, but awake.
From 12/17/08:
I'm heading back home today. I use the word "back" both literally and figuratively. I am literally flying home today, as in traveling. But I am also heading "back" in the sense that I am going to regress. You see, I have noticed that every time my family is together, we regress into our childhood roles. When we're not home, we're mature, grown ass people. I'm in law school doing real law school things, my brother is in business school learning about accounting, and my sister is in college engaging in philosophical discussions about social constructs. And then we get home and every day is 1989.
Scene from 1989: I'm staring into the camera, doing a choreographed dance to a "A Tisket a Tasket." And I'm really good at it... I even adlib some "doo dah doo dahs" as I shimmy my shoulders and whip my chicken legs around. My brother proceeds to run across the screen, making weird noises and holding some type of concocted gadget. He's a ghostbuster, obviously, and he's fighting the bad guys. He throws a pillow in my face and yells "you got slliiiiiimeeeedd!" "BREN-DDANN," I shriek and elbow him in the stomach. Pause. I turn back to the camera with a sickeningly sweet smile and continue dancing. My mom laughs at me (not with me) and then scans the room with her camera, wondering aloud, "where's Shannon?" And sure enough, the camera scans to little Shannon, alone in the corner, rocking away on a plastic pony, talking to herself or one of her imaginary friends, it's too tough to tell. Soon after, the camera zooms in on my dad, and he makes a goofy face, which is kinda funny, but no one really laughs (it's better not to encourage him), and the scene ends.
Not much has changed almost 20 years later. I still seek validation from my parents and try to entertain them with my trivial accomplishments (look mom! I have a blog!). Brendan spends the day playing Xbox and seeking to live vicariously through a character in a video game (He's 27, but that's ok). My dad putzes around the house making horribly corny jokes that are almost funny. Shannon is in her room, doing her own thing, and giving two shits about the scenes unfolding around her. And my mom walks in and out of each room, all up in every one's business, making comments that she thinks are funny, and laughing at us.
Part of us can't help it. We are who we are! But then there are times when we're being OTHER than who our family THINKS we are, and our family still responds as if we're the same. For example, just recently, when my parents came to L.A. for Thansgiving, I turned to my mom, gave her a big hug, and genuinely told her how much I loved having them here. My mom looked at me and responded, "Ohhhhh, you suck up." I'm sorry....WHAT??!! "Mom!" I exclaimed, "I'm not seeking validation, I'm simply expressing my love!" To which my mom laughed.
Here's another example. I come home from exams. And I'm feeling pretty good about myself and slightly knowledgeable about the law. We're at the dinner table having a conversation about politics. Somehow the law comes up. I think to myself, this is the perfect opportunity to contribute a small piece of the plethora of knowledge I have accumulated this semester. So, I chime in something about civil liberties and tell my family a story about a prolonged detention of an American citizen in Iraq. It sounds like a pretty good law school story--legal jargon, political relevancy, and exemplary of a civil rights impact litigation case. The only problem is my speech dyslexia kicks in and I add, "You can read the guy's biopsy online." Pause. "Biopsy?" my family responds in confusion. I stare blankly. "Yeah." I respond, "biopsy." "You mean 'biography'!?" they shriek and laugh hysterically. "Oh Kerry..." they say patronizingly, shake their heads, and smirk in that "you're such an idiot, I can't believe you're in law school" type of manner. And suddenly, any small bit of pride I had in my law school education has disintegrated. And I've returned to the characterure of myself from 1989.
What's so interesting about this regression is that it is actually more symbolic than I would like to believe. It doesn't just happen with family, but it happens to each of us, every day of our lives. Each day we wake up and we regress into the role we played the day before. We wake up believing that we are a certain way. Because we have told ourselves so. Because our family sees us as so. Because our friends see us as so. Because society tells us we should be so. And somewhere along the line, we started to believe that we are fixed characters. And so we start playing the part. And suddenly, we are not just playing a character, but we ARE that character.
And then we label ourselves based on these traits: I am Kerry, I am a girl, I am 25, I am straight, I am a law student, I interned here, I will be working there. And then, we begin to tell others how they should perceive us: "Oh, I'm fun, but I don't do fun things," "I'm a morning person," "I don't like watching tv," "I always do this, but never do that," "I believe in this, but not that." And the next thing we know, we've created a nice little image for ourselves. And two things can happen, we cling to the constructed roles we've created or try to free ourselves from them.
But if we're not these roles, then who are we? That's what I'm trying to figure out. I'm trying to let Kerry just be Kerry, but struggling to free myself from the confines of constructed roles. I'm trying to learn how to work outside myself, but still remain connected to my inner-being. I'm trying to be just here, in the now, but find myself creating a persona for later.
When Buddha was asked, "What are you? Are you a God or a man." He responded simply, "I am awake." And I think at the start of each day, that's all we can ask ourselves to be. Awake. Nothing else, no one else, but awake.
December 13, 2009
Dancing in front of the Mirror
When I was little, I would spends hours dancing in my room, choreographing moves to "A Tisket, A Tasket" and "Have you ever seen a Lassie?" In first grade, I completed my first (and last) dance recital--a tap dance to "Deep in the Heart of Texas." (My dad taped over the recital with a Bills Game-one that he actually attended, but a game he wanted to re-watch when he came home....this a different blog entry.)
In elementary school, I would boss my friends around, barking out the proper moves to "I saw the Sign" or any one of the Disney Showtunes. In high school, the trend continued-- in two of the talent shows my friends and I choreograped dances to "You Don't Own Me" and Jackson's 5, "I want you back." Though most people in the talent show strummed their guitars or read poetry, we found joy (and talent?) in lipsynching and jumping off chairs.
The first week of college, I naively tried out for the hip-hop team. For purposes of not reliving that humiliating 5 hours, I will simply state that trying to mimic Julia Stiles' dance moves from Save the Last Dance during the individualized dance portion of the tryout will simply not cut it, particularly when everyone else in the tryout can (1) breakdance; (2) Harlem shake; or (3) perform the full rendition to Michael Jackson's Thriller. Needless to say...I didn't get a call back.
Despite this setback, my friends and I, even in college, loved to make up dances. Prior to going out at night, I'd spend time in my room, bee-bopping around, getting ready, and practicing "new moves" in front of the mirror (and by "new moves" I mean the latest moves I saw someone cooler than me perform). My friends and I mastered the Jump Rope dance, mimicked Destiny's Child music video, and encouraged dance offs at every party.
And then one day, the music stopped. Not literally, of course, but at some point in my life, I stopped dancing in front of the mirror. I would dance at parties, at family reunions, and at weddings, but I no longer came home at the end of the day, changed into sweats, blasted some tunes, and shook my bootie to the newest jams. What happened?
I am not sure if we have a "maturity" nerve in our body or if it's a voice in our head that society has implanted, but at some subtle point in the past few years, I think when the thought of dancing in my room crossed my mind, I heard a whisper, "too old for that." The sad part is that I listened. It wasn't until this summer that something small re-awakened inside of me. After taking the Bar, I went to see Shanti, an Indian reflexologist and a healer, to help fix my study aches and pains. When I sat down in his chair, he looked me straight in the eye, leaned in, and said, "you have music your soul." I quickly admitted, "Ohh...well, I am a horrrible singer." (My sister and brother will admit I ruin every song on the radio due to my improvisations). Shanti smiled and responded, "I didn't say you a were good singer, no, I didn't. But you have music in your soul."
I don't think Shanti told me this because he knew I listened to the music; Shanti told me this because he could see I wasn't listening to it. We all have music in our soul, it is just a matter of whether we dance to it. As I get older, I cease to tap into my endless supply of internal rhythms. While it occasionally bursts out when I am driving alone in the car or attending a concert, the rhythms usually remain repressed until an "appropriate time."
Last night,the time was "appropriate." My mom and I went to see Fela, a broadway play that chronicles the Nigerian revolutionary, singer, and pioneer of Afrobeat. It. was. amazing. The drum beat penetrated the soul, the lights and colors made me dizzy, the dancing was disciplined chaos. Throughout the play, I kept thinking, "I'm going to buy this cd...and, without shame, dance in front of the mirror."
And so today, for the first time in a while, I am going to dance to the music in my soul.
In elementary school, I would boss my friends around, barking out the proper moves to "I saw the Sign" or any one of the Disney Showtunes. In high school, the trend continued-- in two of the talent shows my friends and I choreograped dances to "You Don't Own Me" and Jackson's 5, "I want you back." Though most people in the talent show strummed their guitars or read poetry, we found joy (and talent?) in lipsynching and jumping off chairs.
The first week of college, I naively tried out for the hip-hop team. For purposes of not reliving that humiliating 5 hours, I will simply state that trying to mimic Julia Stiles' dance moves from Save the Last Dance during the individualized dance portion of the tryout will simply not cut it, particularly when everyone else in the tryout can (1) breakdance; (2) Harlem shake; or (3) perform the full rendition to Michael Jackson's Thriller. Needless to say...I didn't get a call back.
Despite this setback, my friends and I, even in college, loved to make up dances. Prior to going out at night, I'd spend time in my room, bee-bopping around, getting ready, and practicing "new moves" in front of the mirror (and by "new moves" I mean the latest moves I saw someone cooler than me perform). My friends and I mastered the Jump Rope dance, mimicked Destiny's Child music video, and encouraged dance offs at every party.
And then one day, the music stopped. Not literally, of course, but at some point in my life, I stopped dancing in front of the mirror. I would dance at parties, at family reunions, and at weddings, but I no longer came home at the end of the day, changed into sweats, blasted some tunes, and shook my bootie to the newest jams. What happened?
I am not sure if we have a "maturity" nerve in our body or if it's a voice in our head that society has implanted, but at some subtle point in the past few years, I think when the thought of dancing in my room crossed my mind, I heard a whisper, "too old for that." The sad part is that I listened. It wasn't until this summer that something small re-awakened inside of me. After taking the Bar, I went to see Shanti, an Indian reflexologist and a healer, to help fix my study aches and pains. When I sat down in his chair, he looked me straight in the eye, leaned in, and said, "you have music your soul." I quickly admitted, "Ohh...well, I am a horrrible singer." (My sister and brother will admit I ruin every song on the radio due to my improvisations). Shanti smiled and responded, "I didn't say you a were good singer, no, I didn't. But you have music in your soul."
I don't think Shanti told me this because he knew I listened to the music; Shanti told me this because he could see I wasn't listening to it. We all have music in our soul, it is just a matter of whether we dance to it. As I get older, I cease to tap into my endless supply of internal rhythms. While it occasionally bursts out when I am driving alone in the car or attending a concert, the rhythms usually remain repressed until an "appropriate time."
Last night,the time was "appropriate." My mom and I went to see Fela, a broadway play that chronicles the Nigerian revolutionary, singer, and pioneer of Afrobeat. It. was. amazing. The drum beat penetrated the soul, the lights and colors made me dizzy, the dancing was disciplined chaos. Throughout the play, I kept thinking, "I'm going to buy this cd...and, without shame, dance in front of the mirror."
And so today, for the first time in a while, I am going to dance to the music in my soul.
December 2, 2009
Oh yeah? Prove it.
I could tell you a lot about myself that you probably didn't know. But the problem is that some of the stuff I tell myself is not always true, so when I'm telling others about it, it's probably not true either. I like to think that I'm pretty socially conscious: conscious about the environment, human rights, civil liberties, poverty. However, one thing I have learned in life is that just because you think something, doesn't mean its true. So even though I like to convince myself that "I care," my actions usually expose a greater truth. (As Maya Angelou once said, "You don't tell people who you are, you show them.")
The other night, for example, right after I made a snide comment to one of my friends who doesn't recycle, I indulged in a bubble bath. And as I lay fully immersed in the lavender scented oil, I came to a shocking and humiliating realization.....I don't really care that much about the environment. And as I came to this epiphany, my bubble of self-righteousness burst and I found myself drowning in a bath hypocripsy.
Now, WAIT, before you judge me, let me clarify. I am EXTREMELY CONCERNED about the environment and climate change. The thought of natural disasters, soiled water supplies, and deforestation makes me anxious, angry, and overwhelmed. But as far as actually caring, as much as I have convinced myself that I do, evidence proves otherwise. (As a lawyer, evidence is a necessary component of determining the legitimacy of the argument).
Evidence that I DON'T CARE: I sometimes buy bottle water, I rarely carpool (when I was in law school, I often drove separately to campus even though half of all Pepperdine students drive through Santa Monica each week), I eat meat (often the non-free range, non-organic kind), I buy fruit that was grown half way around the world, I use way too much water, I leave lights on, I haven't changed all of my light bulbs to florescent bulbs, I take planes when I could take trains, I take cars when I could take bikes, I take buses when I could walk, and so on.
Evidence that I CARE: I have a Sigg, I unplug my toaster when I'm done, and I recycle (but who I am kidding...recycling simply isn't enough these days).
Conclusion: I don't really care....at least enough to change my ways. Why does this happen? I think my main problem is that I have confused having "an opinion" or "a belief in something" as translating into "caring." And so, somewhere in there, I have convinced myself that if, mentally and emotionally, "I care" I can justify (or ignore) my non-caring actions. Having a belief is easy. Acting on that belief is not. And actually caring about acting on that belief is a whole another issue.
I've struggled with reconciling belief and action for a while now. One of the most profound epiphanies of my life (and humiliating realizations) was in my senior year of college. I had just shared my life story (my "bio") with 15 newly met people whose only duty that night was to listen to my story and ask me questions. And after I finished my life story, cried tears of pain, and shared my proudest moments, I sat vulnerably as I awaited questions. My new friend Chatan raised his hand and simply asked, "ok yeah, we heard your story, but what do you CARE about?" Dumbfounded, mind-reeling, and annoyed that someone would even ask such a question, I defensively thought to myself "I care about a lot of things." Chatan continued, "I mean, are you the type of person who reads the newspaper, thinks 'that's sad,' puts it down, and moves on? Or do you ever care about something enough to DO something?"
Woah.
And as I sat in silence, defensive, vulnerable, and ashamed, I realized that up until that point in my life, I had never asked myself, "what do I truly care about?" And I certainly never took the time to ask: "do I believe that I care...or do I care enough to DO?"
While this entry does not explore how it is that people, in general, come to care enough to act (this will be saved for a later date), I know that in order to hold myself accountable, I constantly have to bully myself, demanding, "oh yeah, Ker? Prove it." I care about the homeless? Then don't walk by them, head down on the street. I care about world hunger? Feed the hungry as opposed to talking about it over large entrees and wine. I care about how the government allocates its resources? Assess how I choose to spend my own resources. I care about the voiceless? Speak on their behalf. I care about the lonely? Sit with them and be in their presence. I care about God? Listen to Him. I care about peace? Stop judging those with different priorities.
And so, though I don't always care enough to act, I do care enough to want to act. And hopefully the bully inside of me motivates me to do good, aggressively taunting "oh yeah? prove it."
The other night, for example, right after I made a snide comment to one of my friends who doesn't recycle, I indulged in a bubble bath. And as I lay fully immersed in the lavender scented oil, I came to a shocking and humiliating realization.....I don't really care that much about the environment. And as I came to this epiphany, my bubble of self-righteousness burst and I found myself drowning in a bath hypocripsy.
Now, WAIT, before you judge me, let me clarify. I am EXTREMELY CONCERNED about the environment and climate change. The thought of natural disasters, soiled water supplies, and deforestation makes me anxious, angry, and overwhelmed. But as far as actually caring, as much as I have convinced myself that I do, evidence proves otherwise. (As a lawyer, evidence is a necessary component of determining the legitimacy of the argument).
Evidence that I DON'T CARE: I sometimes buy bottle water, I rarely carpool (when I was in law school, I often drove separately to campus even though half of all Pepperdine students drive through Santa Monica each week), I eat meat (often the non-free range, non-organic kind), I buy fruit that was grown half way around the world, I use way too much water, I leave lights on, I haven't changed all of my light bulbs to florescent bulbs, I take planes when I could take trains, I take cars when I could take bikes, I take buses when I could walk, and so on.
Evidence that I CARE: I have a Sigg, I unplug my toaster when I'm done, and I recycle (but who I am kidding...recycling simply isn't enough these days).
Conclusion: I don't really care....at least enough to change my ways. Why does this happen? I think my main problem is that I have confused having "an opinion" or "a belief in something" as translating into "caring." And so, somewhere in there, I have convinced myself that if, mentally and emotionally, "I care" I can justify (or ignore) my non-caring actions. Having a belief is easy. Acting on that belief is not. And actually caring about acting on that belief is a whole another issue.
I've struggled with reconciling belief and action for a while now. One of the most profound epiphanies of my life (and humiliating realizations) was in my senior year of college. I had just shared my life story (my "bio") with 15 newly met people whose only duty that night was to listen to my story and ask me questions. And after I finished my life story, cried tears of pain, and shared my proudest moments, I sat vulnerably as I awaited questions. My new friend Chatan raised his hand and simply asked, "ok yeah, we heard your story, but what do you CARE about?" Dumbfounded, mind-reeling, and annoyed that someone would even ask such a question, I defensively thought to myself "I care about a lot of things." Chatan continued, "I mean, are you the type of person who reads the newspaper, thinks 'that's sad,' puts it down, and moves on? Or do you ever care about something enough to DO something?"
Woah.
And as I sat in silence, defensive, vulnerable, and ashamed, I realized that up until that point in my life, I had never asked myself, "what do I truly care about?" And I certainly never took the time to ask: "do I believe that I care...or do I care enough to DO?"
While this entry does not explore how it is that people, in general, come to care enough to act (this will be saved for a later date), I know that in order to hold myself accountable, I constantly have to bully myself, demanding, "oh yeah, Ker? Prove it." I care about the homeless? Then don't walk by them, head down on the street. I care about world hunger? Feed the hungry as opposed to talking about it over large entrees and wine. I care about how the government allocates its resources? Assess how I choose to spend my own resources. I care about the voiceless? Speak on their behalf. I care about the lonely? Sit with them and be in their presence. I care about God? Listen to Him. I care about peace? Stop judging those with different priorities.
And so, though I don't always care enough to act, I do care enough to want to act. And hopefully the bully inside of me motivates me to do good, aggressively taunting "oh yeah? prove it."
September 29, 2009
Today I lost myself.
Today I lost myself. Momentarily, of course. But moments are sneaky because they blur into the day and the day blurs into time, time forgets to tell us it is passing, and then these moments no longer seem so innocent.
It wasn't until I got Home today that I remembered to remember me.
It (the "losing me") began with the walk to the subway as I hurriedly crossed streets to a blinking of the red hand. I walked unnoticed and unnoticingly walked.
And then I sat on the subway, reading ads for learning English and plastic surgery.
And I stared at others as they vacantedly sipped their cheap coffee, getting lost in their thoughts that probably didn't exist.
And I sat at my desk, engulfed in suspected terror plots and the reasonableness of class action attorney fees.
And I walked out of the court house, thinking about the past and planning for the future.
And I checked my phone for no other reason than habit. And then 30 seconds later, I checked it again. No "new" news in the world that I was currently not checked into.
And then when I was near home, I felt a chill in the air, and I thought, "I am cold." And suddenly I remembered that I was feeling. Which led me to remember that "I am." Which reminded me that I was me. And it felt good to return to a state of remembering. To catch that moment before it fled. To truly breathe. To accompany myself back Home.
It wasn't until I got Home today that I remembered to remember me.
It (the "losing me") began with the walk to the subway as I hurriedly crossed streets to a blinking of the red hand. I walked unnoticed and unnoticingly walked.
And then I sat on the subway, reading ads for learning English and plastic surgery.
And I stared at others as they vacantedly sipped their cheap coffee, getting lost in their thoughts that probably didn't exist.
And I sat at my desk, engulfed in suspected terror plots and the reasonableness of class action attorney fees.
And I walked out of the court house, thinking about the past and planning for the future.
And I checked my phone for no other reason than habit. And then 30 seconds later, I checked it again. No "new" news in the world that I was currently not checked into.
And then when I was near home, I felt a chill in the air, and I thought, "I am cold." And suddenly I remembered that I was feeling. Which led me to remember that "I am." Which reminded me that I was me. And it felt good to return to a state of remembering. To catch that moment before it fled. To truly breathe. To accompany myself back Home.
September 18, 2009
The Old New Me
I haven't written in a while for no other reason than I just didn't feel like it. But I just moved to New York City last week and the freshness of my surroundings has encouraged me to begin blogging again. It feels good to write and I enjoy the struggle to articulate my muddled pile of thoughts.
I had been anticipating this move to New York for months. In August, as I indulged in family time at my beach house, I started meticulously making lists of everything I wanted to complete, explore, and become when I moved. I wanted to start up my yoga practice again. I wanted to avoid TV and read books from the library. I wanted to join a community group and volunteer. I wanted to support local farmers and only buy from local markets. I wanted to find socially conscious people who I could discuss my dreams and frustrations with. The list, rightly named "The Next Chapter," quickly became longer and longer with my internal desires. And I LOVED this list. I carried it around with me from room to room at my house, adding character traits and habits that "the new me, in the next chapter" would acquire. Having the list was great because it meant that I didn't need to start on being "the new me," until I actually moved. Sure there was a yoga studio down the road from me in Canada, and a weekly farmers market, and people I could connect with, and places to volunteer...but I wasn't "there" in New York City yet, so while I was "here" still in Canada, I could still be the "old" me...unmotivated, undisciplined, and unable to meet my own desired standard of living. But "here" was comfortable, so I felt entitled to enjoy it for as long as I could.
So, now that there has become here, I am thirstily drinking what the city has to offer before I start my job next week. However, I must admit, most of motivation to explore stems from fear. And I am my biggest fear. I know my own tendencies too well. As a lover of routine and simplicity, I know I will quickly become trapped in a daily ritual. Of course nothing is wrong with ritual, but, unfortunately, my rituals tend to become unbreakable patterns of permanency anchored in self-absorption. And this leads me to awake each day feeling trapped by the weight of the world.
But now, I have the opportunity to choose my rituals before they start. And this is liberating!
The only problem with my new found liberation is that I have already confined it with artificial time constraints. I am only liberated until my routine begins, at which point, I am once again encircled in schedules and new old habits and routines. I quickly forget that each day is in of itself an opportunity to liberate myself from "the old me." I forget to believe that the end of each day is a death and the beginning of the next, a rebirth. I fail to realize the essence of who I am--one who is impermanent, malleable, fluid. Instead, I continue to hold onto fixed views of myself, clinging to these characteristics because they help define me to the world and offer a comfort in my own predictability. Such that I wake up each day without a feeling of surprise, with the expectation of sameness, with the entitlement of routine. And it makes me feel safe. But despite this safety, deep down, I am already planning for the future, for when the "next chapter" can begin, so that I can recreate myself, remold myself into a better version of me. And though I clothe myself each day with my traits from the day before and wrap myself in the heavy cloak of "Kerryness," I yearn to put on a different wardrobe or even no wardrobe at all. I yearn to be free of myself.
And to do this, to free myself, I need to stop defining "the next chapter" as a set point in the future. I need to go to bed each night knowing that tomorrow is already a new chapter. And I need to wake up knowing I am free to be the person I want to be today, knowing that my inadequacies and predictabilities and stagnancies of yesterday have died in the night, knowing that whether I decide to be the "old" me today or the "new me" today, I have a choice in the matter. Because on this morning, I am reborn.
I had been anticipating this move to New York for months. In August, as I indulged in family time at my beach house, I started meticulously making lists of everything I wanted to complete, explore, and become when I moved. I wanted to start up my yoga practice again. I wanted to avoid TV and read books from the library. I wanted to join a community group and volunteer. I wanted to support local farmers and only buy from local markets. I wanted to find socially conscious people who I could discuss my dreams and frustrations with. The list, rightly named "The Next Chapter," quickly became longer and longer with my internal desires. And I LOVED this list. I carried it around with me from room to room at my house, adding character traits and habits that "the new me, in the next chapter" would acquire. Having the list was great because it meant that I didn't need to start on being "the new me," until I actually moved. Sure there was a yoga studio down the road from me in Canada, and a weekly farmers market, and people I could connect with, and places to volunteer...but I wasn't "there" in New York City yet, so while I was "here" still in Canada, I could still be the "old" me...unmotivated, undisciplined, and unable to meet my own desired standard of living. But "here" was comfortable, so I felt entitled to enjoy it for as long as I could.
So, now that there has become here, I am thirstily drinking what the city has to offer before I start my job next week. However, I must admit, most of motivation to explore stems from fear. And I am my biggest fear. I know my own tendencies too well. As a lover of routine and simplicity, I know I will quickly become trapped in a daily ritual. Of course nothing is wrong with ritual, but, unfortunately, my rituals tend to become unbreakable patterns of permanency anchored in self-absorption. And this leads me to awake each day feeling trapped by the weight of the world.
But now, I have the opportunity to choose my rituals before they start. And this is liberating!
The only problem with my new found liberation is that I have already confined it with artificial time constraints. I am only liberated until my routine begins, at which point, I am once again encircled in schedules and new old habits and routines. I quickly forget that each day is in of itself an opportunity to liberate myself from "the old me." I forget to believe that the end of each day is a death and the beginning of the next, a rebirth. I fail to realize the essence of who I am--one who is impermanent, malleable, fluid. Instead, I continue to hold onto fixed views of myself, clinging to these characteristics because they help define me to the world and offer a comfort in my own predictability. Such that I wake up each day without a feeling of surprise, with the expectation of sameness, with the entitlement of routine. And it makes me feel safe. But despite this safety, deep down, I am already planning for the future, for when the "next chapter" can begin, so that I can recreate myself, remold myself into a better version of me. And though I clothe myself each day with my traits from the day before and wrap myself in the heavy cloak of "Kerryness," I yearn to put on a different wardrobe or even no wardrobe at all. I yearn to be free of myself.
And to do this, to free myself, I need to stop defining "the next chapter" as a set point in the future. I need to go to bed each night knowing that tomorrow is already a new chapter. And I need to wake up knowing I am free to be the person I want to be today, knowing that my inadequacies and predictabilities and stagnancies of yesterday have died in the night, knowing that whether I decide to be the "old" me today or the "new me" today, I have a choice in the matter. Because on this morning, I am reborn.
March 6, 2009
Ceaseless Craving, Invincible Sustenance
The other night, right before I went to bed, I was craving something sweet. Not wanting to deprive myself of a bedtime snack (heaven forbid), I grabbed a chocolate chip cookie. And as I stuffed it into my mouth en route to my bedroom, I paused. Though my mouth was still crammed with cookie, I was convinced I needed another one. I NEEDED it. Still chewing, I immediately turned around, walked back to the kitchen, and proceeded to shove another one in my face. I breathed a sigh of relief. This was exactly what I needed, I thought to myself, as I crawled into bed with crumbs on my face.
Thirty minutes later, I found myself staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sugar high to wear off, and wondering why I had convinced myself that I actually needed two cookies right before going to bed. I couldn't help it, I thought to myself, I was craaaving them. But was I? Yeah, I'm pretty sure I was. The problem is though I'm always craving something. I crave morsels of chocolate at every meal (read: a large large piece of chocolate), I crave wine, I crave fresh air, I crave dinners out, I crave leisure, I crave coffee with hazlenut creamer, I crave a beer with my burger...and the list goes on. The utterly ridiculous thing about these cravings is that I always find a way to satiate them. It would never occur to me not to! If I want a f-ing cookie, I'm gonna buy a f-ing cookie. And if I want a glass of wine, I'm going to pour one. And if I want leisure, I embark on fun. And if I want a burger, I'm going to get a burger (medium rare, please) despite the fact that I claimed a month ago to be a vegetarian. (This is why I'm NOT a vegetarian...because five days into it, I have these pregnancy type cravings for raw meat and ten minutes later I find myself gnawing on chicken wings, thinking sheepishly "I couldn't help it.... my body was craaaavvingggg it") Ummm...??!!
I rarely do NOT act on cravings and this scares me. It scares me, firstly, because when it comes to my food desires, I know there are so many hungry people in this world who cannot simply eat what they want, when they want. Secondly, this scares me because even though I do not have an addiction (or at least one that I'm not in denial about), I could see how easily satisfying cravings could lead to one. Thirdly, this scares me because I think on principle, deprivation can lead to growth, and I should practice the act of deprivation more. And lastly, this scares me because as the cravings ceaselessly continue, I ceaselessly satisfy them, but I still ceaselessly seek for more satisfaction. To it put it simply, no matter what needs I may satisfy, I still don't feel "filled."
Don't get me wrong. If I'm craving cookies, and I wash a row of Oreos down my throat with a glass of milk, I will be FULL. But I won't be FILLED, and I certainly won't be FULFILLED. The irony is, however, that being "filled" is really all I want at the end of the day; I don't want cookies before I go to sleep each night, I actually just want peace. But, instead of doing a five-minute meditation (which my heart craves), I find myself eating cookies (which my stomach craves).
I'm not Freud, so I won't try to psychoanalyze what my cravings really might mean from a psychological standpoint (although I'm sure Freud could offer some ver-y interesting commentary). I will, however, analyze my cravings from a more spiritual perspective.
Our cravings stem from something inside of us which tells us that we need something outside of us to feel "satisfied." This is the utter lie of the world--that we are not "complete" as we are; we need something OTHER than ourselves to fill us, whether that be a relationship, a friendship, a job, a house, a certain lifestyle. But the fact is that we are already completely whole. We are born in Union with God. But as we process life and start to form our identity, we start to identify ourselves based on the world around us. We start to believe we are what we do and what we have, and we therefore start to feel that we are separate from that Union. And once we believe we are separate, our needs start to change. We start to crave the knowing of things as opposed to the knowing of our inner-being. We crave noise as opposed to silence. We crave motion as opposed to stillness. And we therefore crave the very things that take us away from our Union with God. As one Sufi master noted, "the inner truth of desire is that it is a restive motion in the a heart in search of God." And as we plow forward, desperately grabbing in vain at bubbles of guaranteed "fulfillment" that pop upon touch, we start to feel defeated. Because despite the fact we have satisfied our cravings, we do not feel filled, and we do not feel whole. We believe that we are separate from God.
As James Finley so simply (and paradoxically) stated: "We are not God, but we are not OTHER than God." And once we comprehend that we are not OTHER than God, we begin the journey back Home. We can begin to feel whole again because we realize that we need to look no further than ourselves (into our soul, our inner-being, our Buddha nature) to find everything we need. Jesus assured the Truth of this in eight words: "Behold, The Kingdom of God is WITHIN You."
And with recognition of this Union and the knowledge that the kingdom of God is within, I think we can start to flip-flop our cravings. Our craving for things, stemming from the separation from God, can lead to a craving of God, which will result in the separation of all things. Nuri, a Sufi teacher, stated it much more eloquently: "Union with God is separation from all else, and separation from all else is union with Him."
And in this Union, the oneness with the divine, we will stop believing that the externalities can satisfy our soul. And though our ceaseless cravings may subsist, we will have the awareness that God is inside us, offering "invincible sustenance" (as James Finley calls it) which is all we really need to feel "full."
Thirty minutes later, I found myself staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sugar high to wear off, and wondering why I had convinced myself that I actually needed two cookies right before going to bed. I couldn't help it, I thought to myself, I was craaaving them. But was I? Yeah, I'm pretty sure I was. The problem is though I'm always craving something. I crave morsels of chocolate at every meal (read: a large large piece of chocolate), I crave wine, I crave fresh air, I crave dinners out, I crave leisure, I crave coffee with hazlenut creamer, I crave a beer with my burger...and the list goes on. The utterly ridiculous thing about these cravings is that I always find a way to satiate them. It would never occur to me not to! If I want a f-ing cookie, I'm gonna buy a f-ing cookie. And if I want a glass of wine, I'm going to pour one. And if I want leisure, I embark on fun. And if I want a burger, I'm going to get a burger (medium rare, please) despite the fact that I claimed a month ago to be a vegetarian. (This is why I'm NOT a vegetarian...because five days into it, I have these pregnancy type cravings for raw meat and ten minutes later I find myself gnawing on chicken wings, thinking sheepishly "I couldn't help it.... my body was craaaavvingggg it") Ummm...??!!
I rarely do NOT act on cravings and this scares me. It scares me, firstly, because when it comes to my food desires, I know there are so many hungry people in this world who cannot simply eat what they want, when they want. Secondly, this scares me because even though I do not have an addiction (or at least one that I'm not in denial about), I could see how easily satisfying cravings could lead to one. Thirdly, this scares me because I think on principle, deprivation can lead to growth, and I should practice the act of deprivation more. And lastly, this scares me because as the cravings ceaselessly continue, I ceaselessly satisfy them, but I still ceaselessly seek for more satisfaction. To it put it simply, no matter what needs I may satisfy, I still don't feel "filled."
Don't get me wrong. If I'm craving cookies, and I wash a row of Oreos down my throat with a glass of milk, I will be FULL. But I won't be FILLED, and I certainly won't be FULFILLED. The irony is, however, that being "filled" is really all I want at the end of the day; I don't want cookies before I go to sleep each night, I actually just want peace. But, instead of doing a five-minute meditation (which my heart craves), I find myself eating cookies (which my stomach craves).
I'm not Freud, so I won't try to psychoanalyze what my cravings really might mean from a psychological standpoint (although I'm sure Freud could offer some ver-y interesting commentary). I will, however, analyze my cravings from a more spiritual perspective.
Our cravings stem from something inside of us which tells us that we need something outside of us to feel "satisfied." This is the utter lie of the world--that we are not "complete" as we are; we need something OTHER than ourselves to fill us, whether that be a relationship, a friendship, a job, a house, a certain lifestyle. But the fact is that we are already completely whole. We are born in Union with God. But as we process life and start to form our identity, we start to identify ourselves based on the world around us. We start to believe we are what we do and what we have, and we therefore start to feel that we are separate from that Union. And once we believe we are separate, our needs start to change. We start to crave the knowing of things as opposed to the knowing of our inner-being. We crave noise as opposed to silence. We crave motion as opposed to stillness. And we therefore crave the very things that take us away from our Union with God. As one Sufi master noted, "the inner truth of desire is that it is a restive motion in the a heart in search of God." And as we plow forward, desperately grabbing in vain at bubbles of guaranteed "fulfillment" that pop upon touch, we start to feel defeated. Because despite the fact we have satisfied our cravings, we do not feel filled, and we do not feel whole. We believe that we are separate from God.
As James Finley so simply (and paradoxically) stated: "We are not God, but we are not OTHER than God." And once we comprehend that we are not OTHER than God, we begin the journey back Home. We can begin to feel whole again because we realize that we need to look no further than ourselves (into our soul, our inner-being, our Buddha nature) to find everything we need. Jesus assured the Truth of this in eight words: "Behold, The Kingdom of God is WITHIN You."
And with recognition of this Union and the knowledge that the kingdom of God is within, I think we can start to flip-flop our cravings. Our craving for things, stemming from the separation from God, can lead to a craving of God, which will result in the separation of all things. Nuri, a Sufi teacher, stated it much more eloquently: "Union with God is separation from all else, and separation from all else is union with Him."
And in this Union, the oneness with the divine, we will stop believing that the externalities can satisfy our soul. And though our ceaseless cravings may subsist, we will have the awareness that God is inside us, offering "invincible sustenance" (as James Finley calls it) which is all we really need to feel "full."
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