I don’t have anything to say about tonight’s astronomical event that hasn’t been said a million times over.
Standing outside in the single digit air, wind whipping through the bare boughs of the ash, black walnut, and maple trees, I’m startled by the cracking emanating from some of them. I’m grateful that we only had to endure tons of rain the past few days, otherwise the weight of what would have been snow would almost certainly be snapping those boughs instead of stressing them to their crackling brink.
The wind is whipping, though. My wind chimes clatter and clang themselves into a frenzy. My fingers numb up within moments.
Being a fan of Mother Nature and always game to either stay up really late or get up at the crack of dawn (preferring the staying up late than the getting up early, if I’m honest) to snag a first-hand experience, I never fail to feel a connection back millennia, to ancestors who were equally (if not vastly more) fascinated by the machinations of our celestial neighbors. Honestly, I almost literally feel those generations rippling back through the soles of my feet, all of us standing rooted to the Earth, staring wide-eyed into the vastness above.
I doubt it took them very long to figure out that their world was not coming to an end when the moon turned blood red, for it’s not all that rare of an occurrence. Especially when there was no tv and the entertainment was the stars, planets, and constellations.
Total eclipses are rare enough to be remarkable, though. For instance, I’m pretty sure tonight’s is the only such eclipse in 2019, at least visible to North America. But what did they think when they occurred? More interesting to me, what did they feel? A connection backward in time? Forward? Could they feel me reaching back to them from now?
It’s undeniable that there is something profoundly primal and humbling about witnessing tonight’s lunar hide-n-seek in Earth’s shadow. We are but specks in the grand scheme our galaxy, the Milky Way.
And when you realize that we know there are billions of galaxies in our universe…
One amazing result of writing my 1111 Devotion was the email I received yesterday from a friend of Cleo and Barry Sharplin. You may recall that I wrote about the Sharplins a few days before Christmas, encouraging a visit to Alchemy, their wonderfully unique clothing shop in Frenchtown, NJ.
Sadly, I must report that Cleo’s suffering ended this past Tuesday, January 15, 2019.
A Most Surprising Messenger
Last evening I received an email from the mother of an art student of Barry’s. She had apparently stumbled upon my blog and read my post from Day 39. In an act of uncommon kindness, she reached out to let me know of Cleo’s passing. Marlene’s words were so loving as she described moments she’d sat chatting with Cleo, listening to stories of Cleo’s adventures.
I am in awe that this blog put us in touch with each other. What a totally unexpected gift I received for the simple act of remaining disciplined to my commitment in honor of my Karl Daniel.
I paid a visit to Alchemy today to spend a few minutes with Barry and to let him know how sorry I am for the loss of his Cleo, his best friend. I know my words, however well-intentioned, were of hollow comfort. No words can set his upended world right.
A Heart to Hold
Before I went into the shop, I sat outside in my car, gray clouds gathering overhead and snow just starting to spit from those clouds ever so slightly. I’d wanted to bring something to Barry, some token to honor my memory of Cleo and acknowledge the rending of his life as he’d known it. Having an intimacy with stones by virtue of what I ‘do’ in my life, my best idea was, of course, the comfort of a gift from Mother Earth.
I’d found a heart of rhodonite that reminded me of Cleo, and as I sat outside Alchemy, I blew my intentions of love, comfort, and peace for Barry into that stone. On some level, I wanted to give him something tangible to hold onto as he winds his way on a new path that he did not expect to be traveling so suddenly.
As I was sitting there, whispering my final intentions into the stone, I watched him come out of the store. Taking a seat wearily on the wooden bench just outside the shop’s entrance, he lit up a cigarette and took a deep, long drag. As he sat there, I watched as he took in the empty front windows and the sign announcing “60% off.” I could only imagine his thoughts. How his entire life had upended in sixty days. Their store, so vibrant and lively for these many years, suddenly sapped of its lifeblood, a virtual shell.
It’s stunning how everything can change in an instant.
The Connections We Make
In that moment, I got out of my car, walked over, and sat next to him on the bench. Looking up, he recognized me, at least on some level, and moved over just a scootch. All I had to do was look in his eyes. I asked if I could give him a hug. (That seems to have been the only consistent offering I could make these past weeks, as I witnessed this unfold from afar.)
I explained how I’d received the email from his student’s mom, and how grateful I was that she’d reached out to let me know. I’d felt really sad earlier in the week, and had blamed it on circumstances in my own life. I didn’t tell him that, of course; but I did reveal how in those moments of self-pity, a clear and unmistakable sense of Barry’s loss (impending, I’d assumed) had intervened. Yes, Cleo and Barry had been front and center in my mind and weighing on my heart.
Barry, listening and staring straight ahead at the shell Alchemy has become, took a long drag on his cigarette. Turning his ruddy face toward me, he smiled and looked me directly in the eyes. “You know,” he said, “she left at 9:11.”
Wow. No. I did not know that.
I don’t know if that felt significant to him because of the connection to ‘the’ infamous 9/11, or if on some level, he knew about my connection to 11s, but there it was. That doorway created by the double ones. A portal. And now another shared connection to a loved one taking their leave from this world into the next.
Barry will be keeping Alchemy open until next Sunday, January 27th. Sadly (but good for you), I was surprised by the number of great pieces still available as of today.
So if you want to help both yourself and the Sharplins out – pay a visit. The discount is steep. And best of all, you get one last chance to have some Cleo eclecticism in your closet. Even if you didn’t know her, trust me. She had an eye for beauty, color, and style that will be sorely missed.
I feel an undeniable resonance with Mary Oliver’s love affair with Mother Nature. The way in which her words reflect my own yearning to hear the stories and know the essence of All Life makes my heart both ache and sing.
The following poem felt like it was speaking to me today, and I want to share it with you. Surely she knew we would be reading it this very day? One day after her soul broke free of the cocoon lately stalked by the fourth sign of the zodiac? By every word, it feels that way to me.
Yeah, I know I waxed rhapsodic over my new journal last night. I assure you, it was heartfelt. Truly.
I’m also a real pain in the behind with my clients over keeping a journal. I must bring it up about 15,000 times during a session, and if not quite that many times in the session itself, then most definitely in my follow up correspondences.
I’ve witnessed first hand the myriad times I’ve benefited from having written down my internal observations and feelings. Truly, those times are virtually countless. From documenting details that have served me in great stead to recall, to purging myself of emotions and accusations that could easily have led to vast heartache and further misunderstanding had they been expressed outwardly, to another person, my journal is in fact my very best friend.
Making Connections Helps Us Make Sense of It All
I’ve also seen the proverbial light bulb go on above people’s heads (usually my clients or students – most being both, turns out) when they experience that zing of excitement when a message or experience from the past (which they wrote down) somehow links with an experience or encounter now – and the dots connect in ways that reveal something much greater than they ever would have imagined (or even remembered, had they not written it down in the first place).
It’s in the details. It’s part of honoring our process. And our process includes feeling our fears, figuring out what we want, describing and immersing ourselves in our really sad and depressed days, expressing our dreams, and reveling in our triumphs – both inner and outer.
I can’t declare more passionately how essential I feel it is to our own self-awareness and growth that we capture on paper (ideally) (but electronically will suffice) (beggars can’t be choosers) (I’ll take a win where I can get it) (I’ll stop speaking in parenthetic phrases now) our innermost understandings of ourselves.
That’s why I keep coming back to the importance of journaling again and again.
Revelations Often Come Within a Single Entry
One of the fascinating things about the transformative nature of journaling is how, more often than not, at least in my experience, the transformation actually takes place within the journal entry itself. Meaning it’s not over a series of journal entries that major shifts take place. That happens for sure, sometimes.
But time and time again, I have sat down with my journal and felt something – some emotion, perhaps, or held an exceedingly strong belief about a particular subject – and by the time I have allowed myself to sit and write and contemplate and perhaps write down all my options, or given voice to all the possible reasons why something may have unfolded the way it did, I notice a distinctly different feeling within myself.
Usually I’ve achieved a sense of peace. Almost always, even if I still have no idea how I want to move forward or what I may be walking into next, I know who I am and how I feel in that moment.
My Journal is My Best Friend
Journaling helps me know who I am. It helps me understand why I think, feel, and behave the way I do in any given moment. And because of that, I think journaling helps me love myself.
Quite honestly, I can’t think of a greater gift I can give to anyone else. That’s why I recommend it like a broken record to anyone and everyone I live with, work with, or care about.
So with all of what I’ve just written, knowing that I have some 63 journals on my library wall and a fresh brand-spanking-new journal just waiting for me to initiate it, you’d think I would have christened that baby today, wouldn’t you?
Well, let me dispel that illusion. In spite of my best intentions…there’s always tomorrow.
I feel as though I’ve written some intense posts lately. Or maybe they were just a little on the long side; I don’t know. Today I’m going with simple pleasures.
It’s a new day. It’s a new month. (Well, in the overall context of 2019. I do realize it’s the 16th of the month already.) But best of all?
It’s a new journal!
Out With the Old, In With the New
Yes! Today I filled in the very last page of my most recent journal. What a great feeling. And even better is the fact that my journal-keeper’s glow is sure to last two full days, since, as was the case today, I felt a wonderful sense of accomplishment witnessing the well-paced completion of those final lines of the last blank page in my bright green covered, college-ruled, wire-bound notebook.
That’s no small feat. It takes a bit of skill, some reasonable foresight, and maybe a scootch of discretion in deciding just how much to write today and how much to save for tomorrow in order to get the entry for the last day to end at a satisfactory place on that final page.
Aaah, but it is so satisfying. And then, once I’ve put a period at the end of that last sentence, I take a quick inventory of the ‘big events’ that I’ve painstakingly noted on the back inside cover. I’ve taken to creating a pseudo-index (even though my pages aren’t numbered) on the back cover so, in the future, when I want to try to quickly locate in which journal an event is documented, I can find it at least a little more quickly than I have in the past.
That’s been a lesson learned the hard way by someone who has, by a cursory count, 63 of those suckers lined up on her bookcase shelves.
And Tomorrow Brings It to 64
Tomorrow I get to revel in the sensual pleasure and pristine innocence of christening a completely fresh and unsullied wire-bound notebook. I love holding my new baby in my hands, appreciating the color of the cover I’ve chosen, feeling its texture with my palm and fingers as I appreciate the lack of bumps and dings that inevitably surface as a result of being taken everywhere.
But this journal is different. This one was a gift (although I did make my requirements for a perfect journal known ahead of time, such as a pocket divider for keepsakes, such as event tickets, photos, or sentimental cards I might receive). This one has two! It’s from Boston University, my youngest son’s* most recent alma mater. And I have to admit, the only thing that could possibly make this better would be if the B.U. mascot were emblazoned on its cover. Because?
Everything is better with a Boston Terrier.** Trust me on that.
A New Adventure, Filled With Possibilities
Thus tomorrow begins a new adventure, at least in my mind. I wonder what events and dreams, adventures and aspirations, rages and sorrows will fill these pages. How will I have grown from who I am this evening, at the outset of this journal, to who I am when I write those concluding thoughts many months from now.
Will I still be writing 1111 Devotion posts? (Sure hope so.)
Will I have some new project in the works or be collaborating on something I have no inkling of in this moment? (It’ll be neat to see!)
I guess we’ll find out. And maybe, hopefully, we’ll all meet in this Ruffled Feathers space together to assess the changes that will inevitably have taken place in my life, in your life, in our country, in the world. Who knows what we’ll have witnessed by then.
Perhaps you’ll have started (or continued) keeping your own journal. And you’ll be on your way to celebrating the amazing two day extravaganza of simple pleasures that, in truth, are the delight of completing one journal and beginning a new one.
I’m distressed. And angry. Viscerally feeling a void upon ‘arriving home’ now that I’m no longer greeted by my sassy, opinionated friend.
No. As I sit here writing this, trying to capture what I really feel, I have to admit, ‘angry’ doesn’t cut it. What a lame word for the actual sense of outrage I’m feeling at the moment.
Duckhead, my neighbors’ gorgeously coifed Polish rooster, is gone.
He’d not even been with us a year. And I use ‘us’ euphemistically because he and his girls were my adopted chicks, with my occasional chicken-sitting bestowing upon me some sort of pseudo-status as ‘family’ (at least in my own mind and heart).
From Chick to Cock
Indeed, I feel I witnessed his coming into rooster-hood. On the first weekend that I chicken-sat, perhaps late spring/early summer, I could sort of tell which one was Duckhead, even though he didn’t look all that different from his girlfriends. But he did eke out a sort of garbled quarter-crow. It was more amusing than impressive; almost sad, actually. But we tried not to laugh. You could tell he meant it, and he had no role model, so we told him he was fearsome.
As the summer wore on, being next door neighbors, I could hear his maturity coming to fruition. I even complimented his human ‘mother’ on the fact that he was finally figuring out how to muster a passable crow. And even though he couldn’t technically see me when I backed my car into our driveway, it always seemed like he would greet me with a quick cockadoodle. And I’d often respond.
Let me assure you, everyone benefits from having an enthusiastic cock greeting them when they arrive home. It’s just, well, welcoming.
Early this fall, my neighbor warned me that he was getting a bit aggressive. So the next time I came over to release them from their sleeping quarters, clean out and fill their water, and make sure their feed was replenished, I needed to be careful. Ol’ Duckhead was starting to exhibit distinct symptoms of machismo.
Wow, she wasn’t kidding. Clearly, the hormones had kicked into overdrive. He was quick! And he meant business! And while he never managed to nail me with his rapier beak, he did make me jump and squeal out a couple of times.
Still, he would greet me when I pulled in the driveway. Although soon his voice just mingled in with the braying of my beloved donkeys residing on the hill behind our homes, as well as the various other critter noises emanating from the dozen or so sheep and handful of goats (ok – the couple of goats) who also shared pasture with the donkeys.
The Comfort of Country Sounds
Life was idyllic. Karl and I would even comment on – and laugh about – Duckhead’s vociferous masculinity. It was a welcome, lovely, country sound that we’d recently come to miss.
Our neighbors two houses away (on the opposite side of us from Duckhead’s parents) had had a much larger flock – and a couple of roosters over time – for many years. They’d recently sold their home after living in the neighborhood (if you can call five houses a neighborhood) for almost 40 years. I’d tangled with one of their roosters a couple of times. He’d half-strut, half-fly over to our back yard and try to wrangle up his chickens, who would enjoy flying the coop on a fairly regular basis.
But Duckhead, in his short life, never got the chance to round up his girls. His lovelies hadn’t escaped their sweet digs even once, as far as I could tell. Sadly, yet another adventure he’ll never get to experience.
Oh, Those Noisy Neighbors
My reason for being upset, as you have almost certainly figured out, are the neighbors on the other side of Duckhead’s home. The ones who moved in a few years ago from an urban setting and immediately erected signs on their lawn advertising their business. Even though those signs are offensive, we all hoped they were temporary. You know, just letting people know what the man did for a living. The four of us didn’t make a fuss. We wanted to be neighborly. We wouldn’t complain. (And ended up remaining quiet for far too long, obviously.)
Apparently, though, they’re light sleepers, and they just could not abide Duckhead’s natural inclinations. They complained to Duckhead’s parents, who searched out all sorts of remedies.
Alas, still feeling aggrieved, a few weeks later these people complained to the township. About Duckhead – a single, lone rooster. They actually lodged a formal complaint stating that he violated a noise ordinance (which was only recently enacted this year). And there was no investigation. No measurement of his decibels (really?). Just a nasty letter threatening action against Duckhead based upon the subjective complaint of these transplanted city-folk.
News flash: we live out in the country.
Duckhead’s parents were floored. They couldn’t believe this had escalated to a township matter. So much for being neighborly. Wanting to be amenable (we all have to pick our battles), they invested in a collar that they were told would stifle or at least muffle Duckhead’s manly declarations.
It worked – for a week or two. But one morning…
Yeah.
We’re all so incredibly sad. But more than that, I’m offended. All my life I’ve lived in the country. I grew up surrounded by cow pastures and cornfields. I want to scream when I hear people who move into the countryside complain about the fragrance of freshly applied manure, or bitch about slow-moving tractors that actually need to use the roads to get from field to field.
Maybe It Would Be Better Just to Visit
This tragic, accidental loss of a rooster is emblematic of a much larger problem. Selfishness. Ignorance. If you’re going to move to the country, you’re going to have to deal with the country. And the country means cows, goats, sheep, horses, pigs, donkeys, foxes, turkeys, deer, owls, hawks, raccoons, groundhogs and all sorts of other critters. Don’t move here and then try to change its nature. We. Are. Nature.
I’m not happy. I truly grieve for Duckhead. But even more so, I grieve for our hamlet. (That’s actually what our five houses are called on really old maps.) Are my beloved donkeys next? They bray at the weirdest times sometimes – even in the middle of the night. Let me tell you: that sound can freak you out if you don’t know what it is.
And what about their roosters? I literally heard two distinctly separate cocks crowing just this afternoon. They sounded at least as loud as Duckhead. Are they next? Better not be.
I miss you, Duckhead. RIP. (Or better yet – come back again!)
(T-1046)
Duckhead, making sure things are safe before giving his girls the ‘all clear.’ Photo by AK
“Prairie Dog medicine teaches that strength and inspiration can be found by retreating into the stillness that quiets the mind. The strength of this medicine is also knowing when and how to replenish your life force. Prairie Dog medicine people tend to seek self-empowerment in silence and inactivity, where they can access dreams and visions without the intrusions of worldly chaos. When they reenter the world, they are profound and powerful anchors of calm resolve amid life’s storms.” (Medicine Cards, p. 225)
On the first day of January, I chose Prairie Dog not only on my day, but also as an indicator of the essential theme for my 2019.
But instead of having Raven underneath, as I did last year, Beaver showed up.
I have to admit, I was surprised. It was (and still is) feeling like this year is going to have a distinctly different flavor than 2018. So, given my assumptions about last year’s Prairie Dog and how they played out, I wasn’t expecting to pick it again this year.
In fact, it’s almost amusing. As I was walking along our dirt road two weeks ago, passing the entrance to the state park near our home, enjoying the unseasonably balmy weather of that first day of the year, I distinctly remember thinking to myself that I’ve let go of the idea of writing a sequel. At least for now, anyway.
There’d been at least three distinct moments last year when I’d set aside time and immersed myself in my old journals, taking a deep dive into the thoughts and feelings surrounding that time in our lives that feels so important for me to share as the next step in our grand adventure. Each of those entry points into manifesting my intention, however, seemed to be derailed by something momentous occurring within our family that demanded my absolute attention.
My Assumption Wasn’t in the Cards
What I’d assumed that Prairie Dog was bringing me just wasn’t in the cards. That doesn’t mean, however, that PD had been a pick that made no sense. Quite the contrary. I was forced to withdraw from a lot of engagement with the outside world in order to address the stuff that needed attention here at home. And I needed to take care of myself, so I didn’t blow out.
I believe the Raven underneath reflected some major magic and healing that Karl experienced, which translated into coloring my entire world simply because our lives are that inextricably linked. I think I can safely say that neither of us saw it coming. I know I can say the ripple effects will certainly extend well into the future.
And so, here I am. I’m not assuming the Prairie Dog that showed up for this year has anything to do with my writing. And let’s face it: taking on this 1111 Devotion has changed my relationship to my writing profoundly, even if my posts, on average, are pretty short. Writing every day for public consumption is weird. And I’m not sure if or how it’s going to influence whether I tell the next chapter of my story in the form of a book. We’ll see.
Prairie Dog’s Literal Message
“Prairie Dog…calls me
when it’s time to rest,
When it’s time to honor
the internal quest.
I go into retreat
so I may see,
A way to replenish
The potential in me.”
As I mentioned yesterday, it’s pretty obvious that Prairie Dog could be giving me a very clear and literal message that I am to lead more retreats this year. (Speaking of which, I need to tell you about a really cool one I’ll be co-leading in May. But I’ll give that its own post.)
Beaver’s Contribution to the Message
Truthfully, given the presence of Beaver underneath this year’s pick, it looks like that could very well be where these critters are leading me. That’s because, beyond the above quote about going ‘into retreat,’ Beaver is all about teamwork and building something with others.
Indeed, a salient paragraph of Beaver is as follows:
“To understand Beaver medicine, you might take a look at the power of working and attaining a sense of achievement. In building a dream, teamwork is necessary. To accomplish a goal with others involves working with the group mind. Group mind constitutes harmony of the highest order, without individual egos getting in the way. Each partner in the project honors the talents and abilities of the others, and knows how to complete the piece of the puzzle that belongs to them. In working well with others, a sense of community is achieved and unity ensues.”
The fascinating thing about this is that this will be the first year I’ve run a retreat with a partner, a co-presenter. And it will be held in a completely different setting than any retreat I’ve run prior to this, with lots of other people involved, and even a different core audience. So there will most definitely be ‘group mind’ at work on a lot of different levels.
Back to Waiting
Now, whether this is how Prairie Dog/Beaver works out in the long run, we’ll just have to wait and see.
Which brings me back to my theme yesterday: waiting.
Is this the year of an active or passive Prairie Dog? Guess I’ll find out.
Either way, it seems obvious I will need to take extra care of myself, since “…Just as Native American warriors knew when to charge forward and when to become invisible, the Marmot tribe knows how and when to retreat. The Prairie Dog runs for the tunnels when a predator is on its trail; in the winter (ahem), it conserves energy by hibernating during the scare time of the cold moons.”
Man, waiting has to be one of the hardest things to do. Because, obviously, it requires us to not do. And for people who have been taught that not doing is lazy, uninspired, weak, or somehow obviously lacking in the qualities that make one a ‘winner,’ waiting can feel like torture.
Waiting requires patience and, to a certain extent, faith. Faith that in making the conscious decision to step back from activity, from taking action or doing something to change a situation in some tangible, affirmative way (move it forward, take it in a different direction, bring in a new catalyst), you are in fact ‘doing’ the right thing.
And that’s the tricky part, isn’t it?
Doing by not doing?
And Yoda Says…
Sounds so zen and new age-y. Or for those of us who love Star Wars, Yoda-like.
But there’s a huge wisdom to the concept. (Which, duh, is why Yoda espoused it.) And because our society positively reveres action, striving, leaning into, hurdling over, and winning!, waiting can feel like losing. Or giving up.
It can feel like suicide.
So when we’re asked to wait – by other people, institutions, circumstances, or Spirit – we can actually feel more stressed over standing down than we would if we were given a task universally thought to be impossible to achieve. Because doing is better than not doing. Because when asked to do the impossible, we rise to the challenge like starving goldfish to the fish food dispenser. Because even if we fail to achieve that (impossible) goal, if we tried really hard, if we did our best, if we gave it our all, then at least we couldn’t be blamed for not succeeding. Right?
In an informal survey of people close to me, there are a startlingly large number of people being asked to wait as we begin living our version of 2019. I can think of at least a dozen people I know (myself being one of them) being asked – no, directed – to be patient. To wait.
Perhaps we are being asked to allow the rest of the world to catch up to us.
Perhaps the circumstances that we will need to make the most out of the idea we’re percolating, or the deal we know is perfect, haven’t fallen into place yet. Maybe we don’t even know yet what those missing pieces are. And maybe we will never know.
We Need to Trust
Yet they need to fall into place for the rest of our vision to come into being. If we don’t know what they are, but they’re essential to the ‘mission,’ then we need to trust. And wait.
Maybe we’re being asked to give ourselves the opportunity to muster our inner and/or outer resources so that when it comes time to deploy them, they are fully replenished and abundantly accessible and renewable. So we wait.
My point is that we simply Do. Not. Know. And it’s an illusion to always think we know best; that we know how things are supposed to unfold. We know what comes next in our Grand Plan.
If this dance with doing/not doing feels uncomfortably familiar, I feel you.
Last year, on New Year’s Day 2018, Karl and I chose our Medicine Cards like we do every other day. But of course, when we choose on New Year’s Day we accord it special meaning. We ascribe to that pick our theme for the year.
A Prairie Dog Year – Last Year
In 2018, I chose Prairie Dog/Raven.
Prairie Dog’s key word is Retreat. And Raven’s key word is Magic.
To be honest, I was psyched. Toward the end of 2017, I’d started getting the feeling that 2018 was going to be the year I finally, finally stopped talking about it and devoted my time to digging deep into writing the sequel to Owl Medicine.
Good Goddess. I’ve only known the essence of that sequel since I lived it a million years ago.
But it didn’t happen. Instead, it was a really rough year for us in a myriad of ways. It took a lot of my focus to just keep us on track and our eyes forward. There was not a lot of opportunity to give myself the inner seclusion I need to write. No opportunity to retreat – at least, in the way I had envisioned I would, or for the purpose I assumed.
Eventually I had to let go of my certainty that 2018 was the year of writing my next book. (Indeed, I’m so damn tired of even thinking there will be a sequel, I hesitate to even bring it up here.)
I was forced to wait. And wait some more. And pivot. Put out fires. Dance around and make things work, but wait on the urge to complete my manuscript. My work was to keep our collective act together and wait for the Universe to move things – people and opportunities – I had not notion of a year ago into place that would allow forward movement when the time was right.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I picked my cards for 2019.
Over the past several days I’ve had a recurring experience, albeit in different areas of my life and involving completely different people and encounters.
But I was struck today by the thread between all of these situations and I didn’t like the feeling.
Of course, it could just be unique circumstances adding up to me feeling that there’s a pattern here. Or, I really am disappearing.
It’s not only been creepy. It’s been infuriating.
A Pattern in Our Society
And yeah, I’ve read articles about how women who reach age 50 or so tend to just start blending into the wallpaper of other people’s awareness. Most of those articles seem to emphasize invisibility in the context of men and being noticed by or considered attractive to men. And while I’m not making it my life’s mission to actively become a hag, I’d also say I’m assiduously not into primping. Never was. Never will be. And lucky for me, I guess, Karl knows that too.
But there is evidence that the invisibility arises within other contextsas well. Contexts in which it’s patently stupid and an obvious loss to both society in general and in whatever industry or profession women work throughout their lives. Everyone loses when women are rendered irrelevant and unseen, muted and ignored, simply because they’re no longer of child bearing age.
And I have to say, I never thought I’d experience this attitude being directed toward me. I guess I thought I was immune because I’ve never cared one way or another about ‘looks,’ beyond, you know, basic personal hygiene and wearing eclectic clothes.
And then there’s the hair
And I haven’t changed in that regard. I’ve also not given one shit about going gray. Indeed, I love my gray hair – and the thought of putting poison on my head and letting it seep into my scalp, so close to my precious gray matter, makes me recoil in organic horror. (Why would I go out of my way to avoid ingesting gmos, pesticides, and other stuff that’s bad for you and then deliberately let poison soak into my scalp?) Because I’m afraid to be my natural self?
Dumb. (For me.)
Yes, I’ve watched people close to me feel compelled to color their hair by the realities of our obnoxiously youth-worshipping society. You know – so they won’t become invisible. Because ‘old’ equates, for women, to ‘invisible.’ And I understand their fear in the corporate or professional world, but it makes me wonder: how do we change that culture if we continue to acquiesce to it?
Which is another reason why I refuse to do it.
But all of this is superficial. All of this is yackety yack about the packaging, and making the product (me – or us) look like something it is not.
Why? The Perennial Question
And I guess that’s what has always been at the foundation of my refusal to consider that I might actually be disappearing. I’m only starting to hit my stride! And my confidence in myself and in what I ‘do’ has been earned. By years of doing. Of experiencing. Of enduring.
Why the hell should I feel compelled to gussy myself up like some 30 year old when I’ve been there already? I’ve raised three kids (with Karl), headed my own law office, worked for a major feminist legal advocacy organization, made dinner every night, and managed to get to most soccer games, musicals, plays, and track meets. Doing all that wore me the hell out.
And I know, I know, it’s a tired old trope, but damn – men (who have not in the main had to ‘do it all’ in order to think they were bad-ass, but only had to ‘do their job’) can become gray and a little thicker around the waist and they are considered distinguished. Not me. Not us. If we don’t color our hair and Goddess-forbid do even more heinous things to our bodies, we become dismissible. We’ve ‘let ourselves go.’ We need to look in the mirror.
The Crux of This Post
Up to now, this post is not addressing what I initially set out to write about. Because what I experienced this week was an invisibility of a different kind.
It may have been related to how I look. But I don’t think that was it.
It was simple disrespect. It was being blown off. Why? I have no idea.
Not only did I feel like I was becoming invisible this week, but I also felt like I was standing behind a glass (soundproof) wall. People may have seen my mouth moving, but they sure as hell weren’t listening. Even when I repeated myself, over and over. Gently at first, thinking they perhaps hadn’t heard me. Then more forcefully because, damn it, I meant what I said the first time, but having to repeat it sixteen times made me a little cranky. Like – stop poking me.
And what I was saying might have been important. It just may have had some validity or at least been worthy of consideration. Otherwise, I wouldn’t spend my time saying it. Time and a lot of hard-earned experience (a lot of which has turned my hair gray, I might add), are pretty much all I have to give.
I’m not saying everything I say is correct, necessarily, nor a pearl of wisdom. Whether it was my opinion on where to stop or what to eat, or a question with a bit more heft.
If you ask me something, then at least respond as though it has registered.
You know – so I don’t feel as though I should pantomime my response or act it out in interpretive dance.
Sayan Mountains, Buryatia, Siberia Photo by L. Weikel
Moon Shot
Did anybody catch the error of my moon shot last night?
Didn’t think so.
I blew it. I snagged a photo I’d taken of the moon not last night but actually several years ago, hoping I was catching the same waxing crescent as it was last night. But I had a sneaking feeling I wasn’t getting it right.
Sure enough, when I walked outside tonight and looked up at Mama Killa, she was definitely facing the opposite direction of the photo that I’d included in my post last night.
Is She Coming or Going?
I think that qualifies me as potentially lunar dyslexic. By looking at the crescent, I can’t tell if it’s coming or going. So I figure maybe if I publicly confess my egregious lapse in knowledge, I will drill it into my brain.
I’m realizing that the moon grows and begins reappearing to us from her new moon ‘dark’ phase from right to left, which is kind of interesting. If you think about it, so much of our culture is trained to think things ‘progress’ by moving left to right. We read left to right. We write left to write.
But the moon, which is associated with the feminine, the hidden, the occult, the intuitive, progresses in the opposite direction. It therefore truly does reflect the feminine ‘yin’ to the sun’s ‘yang.’
Which reminds me that we’re in the midst of two eclipses this month. The first occurred on January 5thand was a solar eclipse. This took place in the sign of Capricorn and was apparently particularly powerful for seeding those new intentions we’re contemplating bringing into our life this coming year.
Coming Up: A Supermoon Lunar Eclipse
The next one (since they always come in pairs), is a lunar eclipse, and will take place the night of January 20thinto the morning of January 21st, depending upon where you live. It is to take place at the same time we’re experiencing a so-called ‘supermoon,’ which should make the deep reddish hue of that “Wolf” moon, when it ‘goes dark’ for the several minutes during which the Earth is directly blocking the sun from it, quite dramatic.
I’m going to be diving into some more astrology soon. I’m feeling a call to learn more about it in a more organized fashion, rather than just picking up bits and pieces of knowledge here and there, as I have so far throughout my life. I’m not planning on learning more in order to give readings or anything, but rather to get a better handle on the celestial influences that are impacting all of us.
I probably won’t blather on too much over it; but you never can tell. When I get enthusiastic about a subject, I do enjoy sharing my delight.
And I’m ready for some delight. How about you?
So dig out those birth certificates and find your time of birth so you can print your ‘natal’ chart and discover more and more about yourself.
But in the meantime, let’s pay attention to that moon, shall we?
photo by backyardgardenlover.com
**See? Told you.
