i'm a little taken aback...

by how much my post from December 09 still applies. Lots of the same issues going on...

I want to post a little each day on this blog, just as writing practice.

Today has been a jangly day. I sent out an announcement about my new documentary project consulting business (yay!); sent out a no to an opportunity to write a newspaper article (not thrilled about that, but at least I was accountable; paid most of my bills; completed a consulting project (yay); and thought very hard about tackling the foot tall weeds in my yard.

This description doesn't sound so bad, actually, but it leaves out the anxiety so intense that I can actually see little dots of light in front of me. My mom visited this morning and that was a tremendous help...

Perhaps my most important accomplishment of the day was updating my Netflix queue to reflect who I actually am (intelligent comedy, vampire series, and misanthrope doctors) vs. the films that have sat by my DVD player for a month (foreign drama and a very bad "This American Life" tv series). I was going to quit all together, but I'll give it another chance.

I also took out my recycling, which was a major accomplishment as it had been a few weeks. It felt like a real moral victory, which should tell you something about how I've been lately.

g'night.

sitting down to write

I'm embarking on this journey as a working artist - which means, to me, that I'm stating through word and action that my writing and my documentary filmaking are my real work. The job that does-not-quite-support me is simply income. Even my cocktail conversation -- my answer to the what do you do question -- has changed. I'm working on a book, and a documentary film. And I do this internet/print marketing gig for money.

At a party, I mostly leave out the fact that the woman I work for refers to me as a "personal assistant." I don't actually mind being called a personal assistant. I'm getting paid a decent amount of money, and part of my learning around this job is that I don't get emotionally invested in what I do, or the people I work for. That doesn't mean I don't care -- I do. But craziness exists in EVERY workplace, and this is practice for me to keep my head and my heart out of it. When my income producing job was also the work-of-my-heart (as in my time at the Center for Documentary Studies) I got completely wacked out on office politics. Any reasonable person would have, to be sure, but I chose to let it crash over me like a North Shore wave.

In certain circumstances, I'm just fine if folks don't ask me "what are the book/documentary about?" I can live without going into the details of bipolar disorder with an almost stranger when I have a plate of sausage ball in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. On the other hand, even at my parents' holiday open house, I found myself in more than one deep conversation about depression, mental illness, and struggle -- while standing next to the fridge, or on the couch. By then, I'd switched to Diet Pepsi.

I hope my penchant for intense dialogue won't stop you from inviting me to your party. I'm a lot of fun, and I looked really pretty in my sparkly holiday garb. Lots of people said so -- not just my parents.

Ok. Not unlike what happens when I sit down to write, now I'm going to get to the idea that got me writing this afternoon.

I am in transition. With this whole trying to be a working artist, there are so many steps. First was finding a part-time job that didn't suck out my soul. Done. Actually, first was to decide I wasn't going to jump back into a full-time job; instead, I am working to keep focused on my identity as a "community based, mixed media, conceptual artist/activist" that was so nurtured at Pendle Hill. I am going to remain spiritually grounded (that's only going ok).

I'm getting screwed up with verb tenses, here. I will, I have, I am. None of it is working. I have a whole 'nother post -- actually, I have a chapter, gosh forbid -- that I want to write about the dangers of not only negative predictions, but of the potential tyranny of positive ones.

Here's what I wanted to say when I first started writing. That in order to write, I can't just say, ok, there it is, on your calendar: "Write, from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m., Wednesday." No, it starts back with getting to sleep at a reasonable hour on Tuesday night. And getting to work on time. And maybe exercising. It's a whole life I'm trying to construct -- a life I want to be present in.

I'm tempted at the cellular level to write from 10 p.m. until 3 a.m. I'd get a lot done. But the next day, I'd be sick with emotion, not to mention how my body would feel. If I fell into a pattern like of late night/early morning and then sleeping much of the day, not only would I lose my job, but I would also be dangling bloody meat before the ravanging wolf of bipolar disorder. Here, kitty kitty kitty.

I'm having to learn a whole 'nother way of being a creative person, one that does not involve painful sprints and abrupt, muscle tearing, screeching halts.

I don't feel sweet about having to learn a new way of being. It's not entirely new -- when I worked in clay at Pendle Hill, I created and presented art without the sprint. Not without angst, but without the crazy. I was, however, living in community. I was being fed three meals a day. I was hanging close to God, and I had the best teammate EVER in launching the exhibition. I wasn't so dang alone.

The alone, well, I need to work on that. While to say that my Mom totally rocks is an understatement, I looked at my social calendar this week, and it was like, "Mom" three times. That was it. Now, that's my own fault. I now have two additional engagements, neither with family members. But I just haven't reached out to the amazing community here in Durham the way I need to. I have friends, I just need to take the initiative and get out there...

In summation: my first job isn't being an artist. My first job is being present, being well, having a LIFE. I'd like to skip that part and get right to being a writer and a documentary filmmaker. Frustratingly, that won't happen, not for any sustainable period of time.

I feel so jangly, in pieces all over the place. But in this moment I'm writing. And in this moment. And in this one...

this morning, I write

Last night at 4:30 a.m., I woke up with words ready to be put down on paper. I thought about getting up, and then thought harder about falling back to sleep. I'm serious about working on my Bipolar Girl Rules the World memoir -- a real honest to goodness book -- and the feeling of that early (too early) morning desire stayed with me until after I had eaten my oatmeal, drank my coffee, and put aside the New York Times Sunday Styles section.

So I've written for at least a couple of hours on what I imagine to be the Introduction -- I know that I've written long enough to get hungry again, and to do three loads of laundry. I was pretty grossed out by what I was writing when I started, so it was a moral victory to continue onward. I'm going to take the radical step of stopping now, and giving myself some credit for getting work done. I even have a calendar I use to mark out the work I do on my own creative projects, to show progress, and to present evidence when my emotions lean toward catastrophe (you never, you won't, you can't, how dare you believe).

I think I'll post essays as I go along, and I would obviously LOVE any response to my writing. Right now, I'm working on three sample chapters to submit to agents. At the North Carolina Writers Network fall conference, I took a step past the slush pile with two NYC agents, and was asked to submit a proposal for the BPG book. So I guess I better write the darn thing. But I'm building up good support team -- an editor to read the chapters when I'm ready, a possible writing group, and an ex-Random House editor to vet the whole proposal when I'm ready. None of this (except the writing group) is free, but it feels like the right people are lining up to help get'er done.

this is what normal feels like...

Abandoning the idea of "what is normal?" for a moment (we can define it, possibly, as the land of "not depressed"), I'm finding myself thinking the following on a fairly regular basis:

"So, this is what a cold feels like, you know, to normal people" (just a cold, not an indicator of moral failings or a harbinger of doom because I have to stay in bed more than I'd like).

"So, normal people sometimes don't keep their kitchen clean when they have a cold because it takes all of their energy to get done what absolutely needs to get done" (not, I am committing a deadly sin of sloth, and therefore, the rest of my life will fall apart and I'll be drooling on the floor before you know it).

Just for example.

I think catastrophizing is a pretty common technique for us bipolar girls. It's a learning process to know that sometimes, a cold is just a bad cold (and miserable, but not, you know, all defining of my character and such).

how much longer can I say I'm in transition?

hello, y'all...

This is a letter I sent to my Pendle Hill friends (edited a bit for this blog)...posting here to give you a sense of what the summer was like...

I wrote this in August, after months of isolating myself (somewhat painfully) for a couple of months upon my return home...

In the letter, I refer to a possible job at Pendle Hill -- I did get offered a job with the hospitality team, but it wasn't possible to make accommodations for the Kacey dog, so it didn't work out. Which worked out fine, because being home has been really good (ultimately!).

You can see many of the images I'm talking about here...
*****

I have moved my computer and printer to the kitchen table in my lovely house – the kitchen gets lots and lots of light, and besides, my office hasn’t quite recovered from my move back from Pendle Hill earlier this summer. I have my screen-saver set to pull photos from the couple of thousand I took while I was a Pendle Hill, and so I’m caught by images and memories as I walk by on my way to fill the dishwasher or do laundry. And I literally am caught – my breath jumps and I remember the crucifix and belly cookies, or Julia and Mary Elizabeth quilting and knitting (respectively) at the Academy Awards party…or, or, and…

Ok, and honestly? I look at some of the photographs and say, wow, those are really good. I took my computer to my therapist’s office last week and showed her some new work I’d done, of driftwood and oyster beds off of Bogue Sound. I cried as I forced out, “these are really good, aren’t they?” I’m not getting out of this one: I want, need, and would be doing the Spirit a disservice if I don’t keep up my creative work. Besides, I want to live up to my title of “spiritually grounded, community based, mixed media artist/activist.”

SPEAKING OF WHICH: I turned in a GRANT PROPOSAL for Bipolar Girl Rules the World and Other Stories!!!! Just yesterday!!! Obviously, I hope I get the money ($5000 to put towards an animation sample) but most importantly, I feel like I announced to the universe, “ok, I’m really serious about this project!”

I was surprised to learn that my fall would not include a return to Pendle Hill as a member of the staff; it wasn’t the right time for me and my dog Kacey (who is nosing my leg as I write this) to head back north. I feel some sadness, of course, but also, some clarity about building in the supports and structures I knew I would find at Pendle Hill and creating them in my life here in Durham. What surprised me about not coming to Pendle Hill this fall (where I imagined taking a job that would allow me to follow my creative callings) was an awareness of the strength of my call to be a conduit of radical hospitality. So I’m trying to figure out where hospitality fits – a deep desire to offer the grace of God to others, in down-to-earth and practical ways – in figuring out my next steps.

Although I have spent a great deal of time this summer with my extended family, I am quite isolated in my day-to-day life. I am lonely; that I haven’t been in a place to connect with my Durham folks. I’d say I’m about 60% positive and hopeful to 40% numb and despondent. That’s not a bad percentage. (And in this moment, I’m fine!). I feel like I’m struggling with real stuff, not made up phantoms. So I’m doing some of the work to reach outward, and make commitments to see people again.

In some ways my life looks very much like pre-PH, but it is different. I’m struggling, but with a level of self-acceptance that is new to me. I’m seeking a way that my next steps – creatively and otherwise – can bubble up out of me, rather than being beaten out of me through self-judgment and despair. A friend succinctly summed up what I think was one of my most important Pendle Hill learnings: I want to live my life out of love and not out of hating myself – creating a life out of a desire for self-expression and overflowing spirit, NOT out of a sense of inadequacy or “not enough.”

That said, I absolutely MUST find a writing teacher, and some photo/film comrades as well. I’m planning on turning one of my basement rooms (a garage, really) into an art studio, where I can paint on the walls. I also want to paint my kitchen. Some of the being alone time has been nesting. And letting go of stuff. I have at least ten large garbage bags of stuff I’m taking over to Goodwill. It is SO the right time to empty my life of things that weigh me down, make my life more complicated. It feels really good.

I think I put off some of my mourning for Pendle Hill in early June because I though I would be coming back. Of course, each of you wouldn’t have been there, so I much have been fooling myself. ☺ I miss you, truly – my heart aches for y’all. I have loved reading your missives – please keep writing! And sign-up for the work weekend in the spring, like Mary said. I’m going to, and I am totally and completely broke right now. I’m living off of a minute settlement from a car accident almost two years ago! The timing of the check was just right, though…I’ve forgotten the pain and suffering, and now I’m just grateful for the cash!

this morning...

I cast the belly of M. in plaster. She is 87 years old. The experience was a holy one -- rubbing the Vaseline on her belly, pouring the plaster in her belly-button, and then laying down the plaster strips and burlap, all the while marveling at M.'s trust, and how open she is to new experiences.

M.'s presence has been an enormous gift to me this term. She reminds me of my father's mother, the grandmother I call Nana.

This morning, M made a comment about how hardworking I am, and I was caught surprised -- surprised but pleased, because a comment about hard work from someone who is 87 years old is no small thing.

So I thought, is that true? Do I work hard? Anne Lamott said that we often lose the ability to see our lives clearly, that it is sort of a security measure for when it just isn't safe too see things the way they are -- because we are too vulnerable (as with children) or just don't have the capacity or skills to deal.

So part of me says, yes you are a hard worker, of course you are. And part of me says, really? Do you thinks so? And another part says, we'll, there is one way to find out. You could, you know, observe, track, pay attention.

I want to learn how to live with out this breathless feeling of lack. Those lillies of the field, they neither toil nor spin, yet God loves them. Mary sits at Jesus' feet while Martha runs around getting everyone cups of tea -- Jesus tells Martha to chill out and do what her sister is doing (I always thought that Martha was just doing the best she could)...

So is the question, "Am I a hard worker" not even all that relevant? Is it a different question, "Am I serving God with all my heart, or as much of my heart as I can?"

I mean, who gages hard? Do I want to ever work 60 hour weeks in dysfunctional environments ever, ever again? No! I want to fight against the dizzy tide of fast and faster still. I want to keep God at the center, my center. I can't serve if I'm ragged and distant.

If I'm having fun, does it count as work? If I'm not worn out and exhausted, am I working enough? If I keep my priorities in order -- God, community, creativity, service -- and live of those commitments and I feel healthy and satisfied...if I decided to live without the guilt of never enough...what would happen then?

Well, what would happen?

i am annoyed

Today I was compelled to stand up in meeting for worship and say:

I am annoyed at God.
I have been studying the Psalms and I know from this work that God is open and available to the full spectrum of human emotion.
And churches don't often share the angry psalms, the verses that say, where the heck are you, God.
And I am annoyed at God.
On Friday, I was joyous and content. I felt close to God, sheltered, covered.
I couldn't stay with those feelings.
Now anxiety hovers so close to the surface.
I am afraid that I will fall back into depression.
I will not -- I cannot go back there.
What I want from God is a guarantee that I will not be depressed ever again.
God will not give me a guarantee.
In the past when I have stood up in meeting it has been to express gratitude.
I have meant it every time.
And I guess I am grateful for yet another opportunity for growth, to learn again what it means to be part of a loving community, what happens when I ask for help instead of hiding.
I used to think it was up to me, whether I let God into my life...or not.
That I could control this process somehow. Like God wasn't going to do what God wants to do.

And then I ended with something about Grace. This transcript is only an approximation. I wish I could remember it more clearly.

What I know is that I shook before I spoke, and that my chest was tight, and I was short of breath. What I know is that after I spoke, I could breathe, and I felt lighter.

Throughout the day, different folks came up and thanked me for my message. That was great, but what I couldn't get over was how different my chest felt after I spoke. And when folks came up to me immediately after the meeting, with loving concern, I was like, no -- really -- I feel ok.

Now the great ending to this story would involve throwing out my anxiety meds, or something like that. The truth is, there is still a lot of anxiety hovering below the surface. It doesn't take much for me to feel my breath shortening or to feel shaky and disoriented. But rather than getting caught up in "this will never go away," I'm trying to adapt. Get sleep. Eat healthy. And allow more time than I usually need in order to get things done, because I can't afford to rush--I feel too bad.

And I'm also trying to see anxiety as a time of being particularly attuned to what is going on around me. God knows (you do know, don't you?) that I don't want to live like this, but I can gather some interesting information...

Saw Anne Lamott this evening at the Free Library in Philadelphia. She was hilarious, wise, compassionate, kind. And hilarious. She said some things that were hard for me to hear because they were so true. About relationships, and saying no, and boundaries when caring for others, and how we are drawn away from our birthright as children of God by being consumed by a fear of being judged by our outsides. I'm so not getting this right, what she said was amazing and I really hope the talk will be on-line some where so I can listen to it again soon.

g'night.

power bars

One of my post-Pendle Hill challenges will be eating right. Here in the Main House kitchen, I get to eat salads at lunch every day that would cost at least $6 at the Whole Foods salad bar. For the whole lunch I eat (soup, salad, home-made bread and tasty leftovers) I would easily be paying $12. It's HARD to eat well as a single person...I've torn the lettuce and cut the carrots for 65 people, and it's not as tough as trying to keep a bag of greens from composting before you get a chance to eat them all.

So I missed (the fabulous Pendle Hill) lunch today, and dug out a Balance Bar Gold (caramel nut) to sustain me until I could grab a bite to eat.

Ok, that thing was disgusting. I used to eat them all the time.

Were they always gross? Have I just gotten used to eating real food?

What will I do?

a few PPH (post Pendle Hill) thoughts not ringed by terror

Ok, so I had my first productive PPH thoughts this morning:

1) I will pay attention to leanings, and understand that exploring an option does not mean a commitment.

2) For the sake of my whole being, I must continue to make it a first priority that I live a God-centered life. (I'm not saying I always keep this priority now, even in the sacred space of Pendle Hill. But I see the difference in my life as a result, and it simply does not make any sense to do otherwise.)

3) I am willing to be underemployed in order to give my art, spirit, and emotional life room to develop and grow. Especially if the work is life-and-spirit filled for me. Note to Mom & Dad: I am NOT selling myself short or saying that I don't deserve to receive fair renumeration for the work that I do. Really. I'm just opening up some space in a time of transition.

4) I don't want to jump immediately into some huge job that will take all my attention and energy. I want to practice living/working outside of Pendle Hill without sabotaging myself.

5) I want to earn enough money to support myself, and I am willing to live on a budget (and stop buying stuff) in order to allow room for the spirit to work in my life.

6) I am also willing to throw all of the above out of the window, because, to love God means knowing that you just don't know what the heck will happens next. I may be the executive director at a major non-profit organization with a 25 million dollar endowment starting July 1. Who knows?

I've decided to try and post every day...

We'll see how it goes. I want to get back to basics, just putting down a few thoughts and not getting too caught up in how good the writing is, or isn't. I wrote a few longer pieces that I got kind of bored with, and never posted.

So today, at 8:50 a.m. here is my thought for the day:

In response to a particular dilema I faced (in the realm of the heart), my friend L. said:

"Move forward with discernment and courage."

A terrific idea in most any circumstance.

I'm off to meeting for worship, and then to the last session of my Centering Prayer class -- which has been totally amazing. Then out to buy red fabric to create a red carpet for the Pendle Hill Oscar bash this evening...