Feeling First

The only time I have ever heard someone say “I don’t make you feel that, you choose to feel that way” has been when the speaker was defending themselves, or trying to let him or herself off the hook for words or behaviors that created an outcome that was uncomfortable for them. In other words, they used it as an excuse and a foil rather than accepting responsibility for their part in a situation that evoked emotion.

Human beings, especially those who are in touch with their feelings in a mature and healthy way, tend to respond to outside forces and situations with their emotions first, and their minds and intellectual reasoning step in soon thereafter. Those who, for a myriad of reasons, are very private or guarded in their reactions, can often adeptly go from step A (feelings) to step B (thoughts) in seconds. Note the distinction: “mature and healthy.” I don’t consider someone who flies into a rage or into hysterics at the drop of a pin to fit this description.

When my son was initially diagnosed with cancer, I supposed I could’ve “chosen to feel” something other than shock and grief, but in my human condition, I went directly to the place that any mother who loves her child would go. It was through time, necessity and giving myself opportunity to process some fairly raw emotions in safe and supported ways - that I stepped into the second phase of both the emotional and cognitive journey.  His process has been different, of course - influenced by age, life experience and his uncanny ability to stay in the now. I think that life threatening illness or loss are extreme examples here, because when we grieve it takes longer to go from initial reactions to consciously “choosing how to feel.”

On a day to day level; however, there are many instances. When your playful cat does something silly and you laugh at his antics, you don’t stop - make a carefully thought out choice - and then “feel joy.” You simply feel joy. Now. It’s a beautiful and spontaneous synergy. When you are listening to exquisite music and the sound and vibration of inspiration, tone, rhythm and harmonies evoke deep sadness and tears, you don’t pause - considered your emotional options - and then select “weep.” You just surrender. Now.

I could offer example upon example of situations and experiences where perfectly intelligent and sensible people DO NOT stop to hold a consult in their mind, rather they allow themselves to fully FEEL FIRST. And thank god that we can do such a thing. Thank god that we can trust the deep knowing of our hearts on occasion as it is with our hearts that we can often see and understand most clearly.

So here’s the deal: What we have DO HAVE A CHOICE IN -- is determining how - after we’ve felt the laughter, cried the tears, burned through the fury or known the heart ache  - how and who we will BE NEXT.

If you’ve been one of those folks who likes to say “Oh, you’re choosing to feel that way.” I would strongly urge you to stop saying this. Stop sidestepping the reality of the human spirit, for to feel is to know that you are alive! Stop placating your own fears by shutting out emotions, and stop disrespecting the heartfelt (not “mind” felt) spontaneous joys and sorrows experienced by others.

No matter how messy or weird or too real it may appear to the nay sayers, those who know the emotional landscape of their inner selves also know that if they allow their feelings to surface, they can then begin choosing what comes next in a nourishing way. For me these are the choices that matter so very much and may actually make me a better person. This writer’s now-open heart, despite my mind’s desperate attempts to make it choose occasionally less messy responses, has the first and last say.

Red Pushpins

Twenty-seven years ago tomorrow, I witnessed the birth of my nephew, Jarrett.

It wasn’t pre-planned that I should have the honor of being a part of his arrival. I was home from college for mother’s day weekend, merely doing the dutiful May visit, when my sister went into labor. Like a red pushpin in a map of significant places one has visited, I can point back to that Sunday afternoon and say, “That was a defining moment of my life.”

It was one part - seeing courage in my beloved sister that I’d never seen before; it was one part the wonder of generations squeezed into a very warm, very small bedroom for a birth in the home I had grown up in; it was one part the gift of observing love’s commitment between my sister and her husband, and it was one part the miraculous itself: a perfect, dark-haired, squirming-with-life baby boy.

I returned to college in a state of pure joy and huge desire to tell friends back at school what I had seen, how it felt and why I was changed. Sadly but truly, I was greeted by people who either listened for two minutes before shrugging and turning back to their accounting 301 textbook - or worse, those who said, “Oh yeah, I saw a movie in high school health.” I knew it was alright. I mean, I understood that I really couldn’t expect someone who has never eaten an apple to understand it’s taste and texture, but I also knew that my change was going to create ripples. Namely, I now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I could never ever have children with the young man I was engaged to. And if I could never ever have children with him, I knew that I could not marry him.

That moment of birth became the first of nearly three decades of decisions I have made wherein my “mother self,” out of the many selves that reside within me, took charge of casting the final vote for all major life decisions. My “mother self” has been strong, resilient, determined, fiercely protective, very loving - and has always (sometimes to a fault) put her children first. While my other personae have occasionally disagreed with her choices over the years, they’ve let her drive the ship -- until recently.

With Mother’s Day upon us, the day that I do not consider a Hallmark-induced experience, rather - the day of my nephew's birth and the beginning of how motherhood would define my life, there are changes underway. Worn by joy as well as grief, my “mother self” has resigned - not her duty - but her post, and while she remains diligent she has definitely passed the baton. Someone else is at the helm. Now, if ever I didn’t quite fit before, I will surely shatter any June Clever mold in which I might be expected to conform.

As my wise friend Katie said to me last spring, “I know that you still have mothering to do, but the tide has shifted. You get to look forward and envision what’s next in your life - with work, artistry, in finding a partner, where you go next and why. Now, you can choose what’s best for Martha. It may be scary, but it’s also exciting.” Damn straight, Katie.

So, in honor of the ever-changing continuum of motherhood and the strong women who embrace it, and in celebration of my children whom I love more than any single thing in the world, I’m placing a new red pushpin on the map and changing course. And last, but not least, happy birthday, Jarrett. I love you very much.

 

(to my children)

I do not doubt you would have liked

one of those pretty mothers in the ads:

complete with adoring husband and happy children.

She's always smiling, and if she cries at all

it is absent of lights and camera,

makeup washed from her face.

But since you were born of my womb, I should tell you:

ever since I was small like you

I wanted to be myself -- and for a woman that's hard --

(even my Guardian Angel refused to watch over me

when she heard).

I cannot tell you that I know the road.

Often I lose my way

and my life has been a painful crossing

navigating reefs, in and out of storms,

refusing to listen to the ghostly sirens

who invite me into the past,

neither compass nor binnacle to show me the way.

But I advance,

go forward holding to the hope

of some distant port

where you, my children -- I'm sure --

will pull in one day

after I've been lost at sea.

by Daisy Zamora ~

Squeak (Part I)

(Death Valley, California
Monday, March 22, 2010)

We’ve been waking right around sunrise each morning. The desert birds have a lot to talk about, and their celebratory tones invite participation...that fact, and I’m needing to stiffly extricate myself from sleeping bag and sardine can tent.  I leave my sleeping companions alone so they can spread out just a bit more.(Did I mention that we accidentally brought the two-person tent instead of the four-person? Yes, the quarters are beyond cozy.)

Today, after a marginal camp breakfast, I underestimated how quickly over-easy eggs will cook in a good cast iron skillet at - 203 feet below sea level, we headed south to Badwater Road and points beyond. Our destination: Badwater Basin, elevation -282 feet, the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere.

As we navigated yet another long, mostly straight, two lane highway, a small squeak spoke up. “What’s that?” I asked Sarah.
    “Not us, “ she replied.
    “Hmmmm,” I responded with a frown.

After another mile, while passing a sign that read “Next Services 73 miles” another squeak - confirmed with windows rolled down for better hearing - that it did/does indeed belong to us. Or, it belongs to Becky, our steadfast bright red Cruiser. For this trip, we’re calling her “The Beckinator.”

Sarah and Ginny continued their gaze of appreciation at the Pinamint Mountains to the west and the Black Mountains to the East. I, on the other hand, immediately begin to fret about the Squeak. I moderated our speed, breathed deeply, and said my millionth prayer for no mishaps.

I decided to be proactive with my fretting. You know that old trick where you think of the worst case scenario, acknowledge it, contemplate all the ways one would deal with said horrific scenario - and then release it? I did that. I played out visions of tow trucks, being hauled to Las Vegas, putting the girls on a plane home, waiting for car parts, expensive mechanics and a long, lonely drive home weeks from now after having suffered the full wrath of the Squeak.


It then occurred to me: that’s not the worst that could happen.

The worst that could happen would be one of us getting hurt (or worse) and with a intuitive wash, I began to breathe deeply and peacefully.  We are well and whole, and all the rest is just idol squeaking and desert dust in the  cogs of the car.

Then, as if for confirmation, Sarah looked at me long and hard. “Are you worrying again?” She probed. I shrugged. And she raised her eyebrows and said in her most knowing voice of wisdom, “When you worry about stuff, I worry about you. Please stop.”

Do we all have a squeak that occasionally stops us from seeing the world around us and steals away our ability to be present and attentive? There’s no question about it. Sometimes, our squeaks actually manifest into something that requires action, but mostly they just work us over from time to time. The trick perhaps, is to treat the squeak not as an element of ominous foreshadowing but as a reminder that although we have no control over the events of our lives, we do  choose the attitude with which we’ll deal with it.

Not suddenly, but finally and wonderfully, the majestic mountains and the stunning whiteness of the salt flats and the brilliant cerulean sky climbed into the driver’s seat.

Supporting Folks We Believe In

One of the most enjoyable aspects of design arts projects in the studio is getting to help spread information about people whose work I believe in.

Take Karen O’Dougherty, for example. Karen taught for a decade at Lincoln Elementary School in Ashland, Oregon where - among many things - she created a powerful “body changes awareness” program as a part of her 5th grade curriculum. After leaving the public school classroom to raise her three daughters, Karen was encouraged by parents of former students who had younger kids, to begin teaching and sharing the program again to interested youth and families. Body Basics I was then developed in the form of private group lessons and has been empowering girls throughout Southern Oregon since 1998.

My two elder kids (one male and one female) attended Body Basics classes during their eleventh years and learned to safely and openly discuss issues of puberty and sexuality as well as gained clearer insights into who they were then as developing  individuals and amongst peers. I look forward to my youngest daughter being among Karen’s students sometime this next year, as Body Basics has become one of our families’ educational rites of passage.

When Karen recently asked me to develop some flyers for local distribution, I was eager for the project. The flyers, one aimed at preteens and the other for teenagers, came together intuitively with images that worked well. This is a bit of the magic that happens when working on something I believe in, like the Body Basics Program.

If you'd like to see fuller format versions, check the Design Portfolio on the studio's website.

Contracts and (Re)negotiations

renegotiate |ˌrēnəˈgō sh ēˌāt|
verb [ trans. ]
negotiate (something) again in order to change the original agreed terms : the parties will renegotiate the price | [ intrans. ] she asked to renegotiate after signing the contract.

If memory serves, the attached note was composed by a seven year old Reid. One day at summer soccer camp pick up, the young YMCA director - with a firm hand gripping my son’s shoulder - approached me with a “concern.” My boy had not only been side-talking while coaches were instructing, but Reid had declared during a match that the officiating "sucked." Clearly this kid was a trouble-maker, and if he intended on returning to camp the next day, a letter of apology would be necessary. The terms were non-negotiable.

Sitting in the car together, Reid explained all of the reasons he was not at fault. He declared that, despite his obvious innocence, he would “write the stupid letter,” but only because he really wanted to keep playing soccer and not because he was admitting guilt.

As a still-novice mother at that point in time, I’m sure I was bugged by Reid’s seeming lack of willingness to accept responsibility for his actions. Now, I look back on the incident with amusement and appreciation for the way he “sucked up” (pardon my language, Coach) and re-negotiated within his own heart and mind so that he could stay in the game that he loved (and  continues to love) so much.

Sometimes, in order to get what we want - or serve the greater good - or make amends - or simply make a shift, we have to accept different terms and conditions. Every day - from business to personal, from political to spiritual, from children to adults - agreements change and new contracts are drafted. It’s maddening in many many ways (just ask any attorney), but it’s part of the human condition. Sometimes the easiest way to accept something that is non-negotiable, is to work a little inner renegotiating and healthy surrender.

This morning, my desire to stay in the game is so great, I am about to back down from the covenant I made with myself to blog continually for ninety weekdays in a row. Since I am the creator of my blogging contract, my own boss - so to speak, this renegotiation has not been a simple or necessarily peaceful process. I’m a tough boss to myself. In the end, I had to call out my inner mediator to successfully seal a new bargain between Martha, the writer and Martha, the hard-assed boss lady. True story.

The result of these new terms: I am taking the next two weeks off from public journaling to make a couple of geographic trips and hopefully, a multitude of creative intangible journeys. There’s essential business and play to attend with my kids and myself during this break, and I want to give each moment my undivided attention. I will return to this written account of my wild untamed life on purpose on Monday, March 29. Meanwhile, I’ll be out there living in it, and I invite you all to do the same!

All will be well ~ m.l.p.

The Soul Of My Boots

I held my first “real” job during the summer of 1978 in Jackson County, Oregon working for the Youth Conservation Corps which at that time was managed through our local Bureau of Land Management office.Definition of “real” to me at fifteen years old included the following characteristics: an application and interview, a dress code, a commute to work, an absolute starting time and a regular quitting time, Monday-Friday, rain or shine and a proper paycheck (though  minimum wage at that time was $2.65 an hour - so however proper it might have been, is arguable).

In a nutshell, YCC is  a National Parks Service program employing youth between 15 and 18 years old to do everything from clear invasive species, to build and repair trails, to upkeep park’s facilities like playgrounds and picnic areas, to piling and burning slash, to helping demolish old buildings. That particular summer, our main project was building the Sterling Creek trail outside of historic Jacksonville (picture scrub oak and madrone, and very dry soil conditions in the traditional 100+ degree July weather of Southern Oregon). I used tools with names like pulaski, mattock, McLeod, grub hoe, council tool and the ever popular pick axe. Almost all of them involved swinging with a fair degree of momentum and upper arm and shoulder strength, and yes - I was pretty continuously sore that entire summer.

Everyday at 5 am I would drag my grumpy teenaged butt out of bed, make a behemoth sack lunch, fill my canteen, dress in the required gear (long denim pants, long sleeved denim shirt bearing the proud green and white YCC patch, over the ankle leather boots, 3/4 length leather work gloves and a bright yellow hard hat) and walk down to the corner convenience store to be picked up by one of our crew leaders with whom I commuted from Ashland into Medford. We’d arrive at the Medford armory by 6:30 to get our daily assignments and be loaded into pale green BLM vans and on our way by 7 AM. We’d be returned eight hours later - filthy, stinking, red faced, dehydrated, famished and $21.20 richer.

Let me get one thing very clear here. I was not a soft girlie girl at fifteen. I was an athlete, a tom boy of the highest order, a wizened treehouse builder and explorer of all things dirty, muddy and imbedded in poison oak, a seasoned weed puller and gardening assistant to my parents and an avid camper. If anyone could make it in YCC, it was me. Right. After two weeks I was completely ready to throw in the towel - or trowel - or whatever. I had never worked so physically hard in my entire life. Never. Never. Never. And never mind that the 5 am thing was killing me, too! Had it not been for my boyfriend Joe’s dad, I surely would have quit. But he sat me down one evening while I was whining about the work and gave me the most wonderful and positively delivered version of the “Once a quitter always a quitter” speech that I could have ever asked for. He helped me change my mind, and I then became my own agent in changing my life.

Had I quit, in the ensuing eight weeks I would have missed out on learning to build a cross buck fence (a part of which still stands around one end of Hyatt Lake, and I can look at with pride even after 32 years). I would have missed the day we were rewarded by a trip to Crater Lake and the exhilaration I felt while running off the dock at Wizard Island and flying into the icy cold, crystal clear, aqua-colored ancient waters. I would have missed standing with my cohorts by the Sterling Creek sign that declared it was build by the YCC. I would have missed being tapped by a supervisor to spend an entire day in the field with a wildlife biologist doing bird counts and especially, tracking down and locating endangered owls in the Cascade Mountains. I would have missed the comedy of peeling off my jeans each afternoon with my gloves still on so I wouldn’t get poison oak from my britches - and the look of respect that my father gave me as I would tell him about my day. I would have missed discovering an essential part of myself - that self that doesn't just work until it’s hard, but works past the point of “hard” to “accomplished.”

Any what, pray-tell, does any of this have to do with Boot Week in the studio? Well, I was thinking last night about boots I have worn and the life I have experienced while decked out in this particular form of footwear. I kept trying to figure out, which pair of my boots do I “love” the most (aka - which life experience in boots has left an indelible mark?), when I realized - the pair I love the most are the boots I wore that long hot dust-covered summer working for YCC. When it was over, I couldn’t part with them, you see. First of all, after three months of wickedly hard wear and tear, I had worn them to a slipper comfort-like cured quality, and anyone who has ever tried to break in boots will tell you, that’s a beautiful thing for one’s feet. But mostly, they stayed with me as worn leather trophies of a job well done and my literal symbols of the proverb  “walk my talk.”

Two years ago, my elder daughter found them in a box and asked if she could wear them for hiking and service work at school. I took them out, rubbed the cracks smooth with beeswax, and passed them over to her with pride.

To Do or Not To Do

Not long after Reid’s leukemia diagnosis, someone felt it essential to “remind” me that Reid’s stepfather of eleven years (from whom I’ve been separated nearly a year) has no legal obligation, responsibility or requirement toward Reid or his care. If I recall, the honest but insensitive observation was: “You know, Reid’s not his son.” 

It was one of those moments when “just the facts, ma’am” are unnecessary and uncalled for, and the abruptly delivered statement felt especially gratuitous because, despite absence of legal onus - my son’s step dad had been generously and lovingly going above and beyond the call of duty to be present for and help his stepchild.

Clearly, the initial shocking days following a child’s cancer diagnosis are hardly emotionally suitable circumstances to cite custodial provisos. Nonetheless, weeks later the statement's intent and implications continued to rattle around and raise questions in my mind, like: What exactly are our obligations to anyone or anything? and When do we accept responsibility - not because we HAVE to, but because we choose to?

Imagine a world where people adhere only to their own private “to do” - or rather “NOT to do” list: 

• It’s not my fault there was an Earthquake in Haiti; I don’t have to send money there.
• 
I’m not driving one less car because of some melting ice cap a thousand miles away; after all, I’m no polar bear.
• 
I’m not gay, so it’s not my concern whether they can marry or not. Why bother voting? 
• Hey, that person didn’t have the good sense to get health insurance; I’m not paying for their prescription. I look out for me and mine; so should they.
• My children are grown and gone; I don’t need to help the local schools any more.
• 
He’s not my kid by blood, so I’m not responsible to help if he has cancer.

A list like that makes you feel a little sick, doesn’t it?

Granted, I’m exaggerating, or am I? The sad fact is -- there are many moments in the human experience where we behave as though we are actually separate from one another and the world we live in. The sadder fact is that we don’t only behave this way; we sometimes even believe it. We then use that warped belief to excuse ourselves from taking responsibility -- not only for large acts of humanity and service, but small deeds that cost us nothing yet could yield extraordinarily positive results.

Committing one's self to a high level of personal responsibility empowers us to stretch and accept greater degrees of moral and social responsiblity. When we take authority for ourselves, our actions, choices and behaviors, then we also understand that - like the stone landing on a flat pond creates ripples, so do each of our words and deeds. This sort of mindfulness opens our eyes and heart, right from the moment we accept the invitation and act beyond our own private “to do” list.

So, to address the rattling questions: What exactly are our obligations to anyone or anything? And, when do we accept responsibility - not because we HAVE to, but because we choose to?

I once asked a wise person what was the “honorable thing to do” around being culpable (at risk to nothing other than ego) for a situation where both the other party and I felt equally righteous and wronged by the other. The reply was “That’s between you and God.” Our obligations - or lack thereof - may be dictated by a court order, signature or contract, but adhering to one’s moral imperative is an instant opportunity to be a better human being.

When we reach beyond ourselves, beyond the bare minimum or the basic requirements, we’re doing more than being responsible - we’re being compassionate.Theologian, Thomas Merton said, “Compassion is the keen awareness of the interdependence of all things.” With such awareness, we can integrate compassion into our whole selves. It progresses from being something that we only think, something that lives only in our minds (along with fear) and merges into our very fibre -- living in our hearts and taking shape through intentional and loving action. 

Nope, Reid’s not his son. That is, in fact, a fact. What is also a fact is this: love took hold and became the mandate.

Quiting vs Giving Up

It was a surprise this morning to get to the bottom of the computer screen and discover that I had read not only Chris Guillebeau's entire blog "Ever Feel Like Giving Up? but also most of the ninety-four (that's right 94!) responses that people followed up with. Apparently, the theme of giving up - or hanging in - is a provoking one for many of us.

For me, "not giving up" sometimes get confused with that chiding voice of coaches past and other well intentioned adults in my childhood who would warn, "Now, don't be a quitter." Their message was certainly meant as a positive, but they never mentioned the alternative route.

Quitting doesn't necessarily equate with giving up, in fact, sometimes letting go - or walking away is the best course of action a person can choose. Done with awareness and intention, the act of quitting an unhealthy situation is a positive. Such a decision requires faith, focus, strength and, and because fear tends to be present when one "walks away," courage is essential.

Yesterday, after months of attempting to slowly take off the metaphorical band aid I've been wearing on a dysfunctional job, I went ahead and quickly yanked. (Where do we get the misguided notion that doing "hard stuff" slowly will somehow make it less difficult or less painful?) The relief was instant and measurable.

I had been feeling like "giving up" for a long, long while -- in truth, for years. I understand now, that if I ever again have those feelings in such a reoccurring and ongoing manner about a job, a relationship, or a situation that I've given time, energy and care to -- I'll examine the alternative of walking away sooner. I'm certain that in most instances, this process will be a delicate business. It's natural for us to want to "hang in" there with things we've invested ourselves in, and I'm like many other inherently hopeful people: willing to go the distance with anything - or one - that I care for or believe in. Willing even when it's no longer beneficial, or at negative cost, or simply beyond repair.

Chris and his ninety-four responders were incredibly inspirational. Many of them revealed deeply personal aspects of their struggles around the all too human urge to "give up" when things get hardest - most boring - least rewarding - loneliest - most painful. They also offered some fantastic tools that they have discovered to help them get through the urge and onto the light of morning.

Am I a quitter? No, and rarely will I "give up." Do I hang in? Yup. (Maybe sometimes longer than necessary) Can I find a balance? Yes, as I learn the art of letting go and walking away toward the positive.