Day 37

I had one of those moments of pure joy a few days ago. My partner, Bill and I were driving home. We had just run a few errands around town and browsed a local thrift store before going to the food co-op where we ate fresh baked bread, sipped tea and talked. The joy that I felt flowed from a sense of belonging. I am 45 years old and for the first time in my life I know what it is to be home.



I moved a lot as a child. I once counted the number of schools I attended before I graduated high school. There were 9. Even as an adult I never stayed in one place more than 5 years before I felt myself being beckoned elsewhere. It wasn't just that I didn't want to put down roots; I didn't know how.



I live in a truly wonderful place now. A small college town with a charming downtown business district and plenty of cultural and civic events. I have made fun, interesting, caring friends here. It seems that I have found my tribe. But somehow I know that my sense of belonging is about more than a particular place or the people that make it a community. I suspect that something in me has changed.



About a year ago I found and started reciting a gatha by Thich Nhat Hanh:

I have arrived.
I am home.
In the here.
In the now.
I am solid.
I am free.
In the ultimate I dwell.

I have been searching for my way home for the longest time. Perhaps this little verse provided a map.

Day 35

I spent years searching for a church community to meet my need for spiritual fellowship. I went to Unitarian services and new thought churches and enjoyed standing in circles holding hands and singing The Peace Song. I went to more traditional Christian churches and was inspired by the life of Jesus, one of the greatest peacemakers of all time. I even went to Quaker meetings for a time. I loved the simplicity and serenity of merely sitting in silence, waiting to see if someone would be moved to stand and share the word.

I always had a vision for a different kind of church. This church had no pulpit or pews. I envisioned people sitting in a circle, simply sharing their experiences of the sacred. No dogma or doctrine. No scripture or rules.

For the last year, I have been attending a Zen Buddhist discussion group. I don't go every week. One of the things I like about the group is that people drop in and out to suit the circumstances of their lives and their personal needs. It is very loosely organized. We meet in a coffee shop. We discuss Buddhist texts as well as the sacred and profane details of our experiences.

More than anything else what I appreciate about this group is that people seem to be fully present. We attend only to the discussion. People in this group seem to really listen to one another. There are sometimes long, calm silences as we consider what has been said. There is a shared intention here, to try to live each moment fully.

I almost always come away from this group with a little jewel that I continue to bring out and enjoy throughout the week. Today we talked about how we can live with the intention to respond to each situation we find ourselves in with compassion.

Responding to life with compassion. Is there a higher spiritual calling? More and more I am convinced that the divine doesn't just live in temples, but also in coffee houses.

Day 34

I made an enemy today. She probably wasn't even aware that I had made her into an enemy. Her name is Donna and she works for Washington State University. She doesn't have a face or a voice. Our contacts are limited to email. She started it.

I received an email from her last week with a TO DO list attached. I was advised that I had to complete the items on the list in order to graduate (this in addition to 2 years of course work, preliminary exams and 2 years of research). This started a volley of email back and forth; me seeking clarification, her telling me about all of the rules that stand between me and my degree. At some point I started to feel that I was in some kind of battle to the finish. This bitch was standing between me and my degree. The fight was on.

I called Nick in order to enlist him, hoping he would join up on my side. Nick is also an employee of the college. In addition to having a name and an email address, he also has a face and voice. As I explained my frustration he laughed and told me he deals with these kinds of problems all the time. It seems that Nick knows Donna and was unwilling to join me in my little war against her. In fact, he said, "Donna's a really nice person."

Whoa! Donna is a person. Suddenly I knew that she wasn't out to get me. She was just a person trying to do her job. To her I am probably just a name on a form. I suppose that's part of the problem. When people get reduced to names and numbers, it's easy to forget their humanity. Maybe someday soon I'll stop in and see Donna and call it a truce. Maybe after I graduate...

Day 33

Yesterday I went out to lunch with my son. At his request we haven't been talking to each other as often as we used to. I asked him how this was going for me. He said, "good" with a little more enthusiasm than I might have liked. We laughed about how well this arrangement is working out for him and joked about how great he would do with even more distance between us.

Then he said something interesting. He said, "You seem to be worrying about me less." This isn't really true. I worry about him everyday. I'm a mom. That's what I do. However, without our phone conversations there is no opportunity for him to hear the worry in my voice. I started imagining what that must be like for him. He shares his plans, fears, hopes and dreams with me and in my response he hears fear. Embarking on adulthood is hard. My fear must make it even more challenging for him.

I hope that my son realizes that my fear has nothing to do with him. My fear is about me. It is about all the runaway trains, blind corners and treacherous falls I have experienced in my life. It is about my history with him. In my mind I do not always see him as the smart, thoughtful, resourceful person he has become. I can't help but see in him the baby I held and the boy who ran to me crying. I sometimes forget that his path is his own, separate from mine.

I forget...and I am afraid.

Day 32

Sometimes it's really hard to be a grownup. I don't mean it's hard being a grownup. I mean it is hard to maintain my emotional integrity as an adult when circumstances and events threaten to transform me into a sniveling six year old.

Today, something happened. It was a small thing, really. I was already feeling vulnerable (perhaps it was hormones, perhaps it was facing the mammogram machine for my annual screening, perhaps it dealing with the bureaucratic red tape that stands between me and my degree, perhaps it was the way the moon and stars are aligned...I don't know). Someone said something (or was it what they didn't say) and suddenly I had tears in my eyes. I felt small and insignificant. They didn't hear me. I didn't matter. I was six years old again. There was nothing to do but cry. The tears were the path back to my grownup self, back to a place where I can stand up for myself and ask for what I need.

I've heard it said that children are prisoners of circumstance. Freedom is the best thing about being a grownup. I just have to remember to choose it.

Day 31

I just watched a You Tube video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sf1wFC2ul7M) of Derrick Jensen talking about education. My heart was pounding as I listened to him "bash education" (his words, not mine). Why are his words so alive for me?

First, my son has been talking a lot about how alienating he finds the educational process to be as a college student. Jensen hits the nail on the head when he suggests that the purpose of education is to separate us from ourselves, to turn us into good little workers; to break our will. I'm afraid for my son who is struggling so hard against this indoctrination. What happens to people who refuse to comply? Will he ever be employable? Will he end up destitute and homeless?

I also recognize that my son's struggles correspond to some degree to my own. In my own life, I am on the precipice of change, high on a cliff, miles from safety, my toes curled like talons clutching the edge. I am afraid to look down. I know that it is time to step off. Will I fall to my death or fly? For me, that's the way it feels to be graduating with a "terminal degree" (I love that term - so apropos).

Listening to Jensen today, I came to realize that I spent 11 years in college and never learned to quell the questions and critiques of 'the system'. As a result, there is no place for me within the 'the system'. What will become of me? Will I ever be employable? Will I end up destitute and homeless?

Damn you, Derrick Jensen. Now what?

Day 30

I know you're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but one of my favorites just shows a closeup image of a woman's smallish hand with the middle finger protruding. The title: Pissed Off. It's a memoir written by a woman who, much like me, has been pissed off for a good portion of her life.

Looking at the pictures of my cherubic two year old self, I know that I wasn't born angry. I cannot, however, remember a time when angry wasn't a frequent and close companion. Yet most people would describe me as "nice" or "sweet" or "kind" (oh, yeah, that really pisses me off). Mostly I keep my anger a secret. It simmers quietly until one day it boils over. Then watch out.

Today I have already been pissed off at least twice. First, I went to the gym and found it packed with short-timers trying to work off those holiday pounds. Going to the gym is not my favorite activity, I prefer to do it without some sweaty guy panting on the next machine. I like my space and I am willing to juggle my schedule to avoid peak times. The problem: for the last month all times are peak times. I immediately need to determine who is to blame here. It's the owners, the greedy bastards, they've oversold the place. I should give them a piece of my mind. This is where I stop myself because I know that sometimes speaking out only fuels the flames for me.

I belong to a writing group that meets many of my social needs as well as my need for encouragement and support. Recently I made a request at a meeting that we limit the number of pieces that we discuss at each meeting. There was very little discussion about my request. I made the assumption (uh huh, you know I'm in trouble now) that others must be in agreement since they didn't express any dissention. I thought we agreed on the two pieces that we would consider at our next meeting. I put it out of my mind, until today. Several people have submitted additional pieces for consideration at our next meeting. What the hell? Did they not hear my request? Did they disagree but were unwilling to talk about it? Are they being passive aggressive? These are the the places my mind goes like a race car, 0 to 60 in 3.8 seconds.

I am learning to slow down. I am learning to ask: what do I need? I am finding over and over that the need to be heard is an important one for me. I took all the stuff we learned in school about democracy seriously. I want to have my say and I want you to have your say. I am a great believer in the power of discussion.

I hope that those of us in the writing group can have an open dialogue about our respective needs and our vision for the group. If not, I hope that I will find a way to get my needs met, either in this group or elsewhere. I suspect I will keep slogging along trying to get a better handle on this anger thing.

When I was a very little girl one of my favorite stories was one called The Littlest Angel. It was about an angel with disheveled wings and a dirty face, who preferred playing in the dirt to playing the harp. Many of the nonviolent communication practitioners I have met or read about seem rather angelic to me. They say and do all the right things, their feet barely touching the ground. I used to be intimidated by this, knowing that I would never be so serene. Recently, I stopped trying. I am becoming more comfortable with holding my anger and my intention for nonviolence simultaneously, just as the little angel accepted himself as an angel with very human qualities.