Fat Girl Running #2: Resources (Unasked For Advice Does Not Qualify)

In Which I Share the Schedule, the Website From Whence it Came, 

                                                      and in Which I Digress, Repeatedly...

One of the reasons I'm writing about being a beginning runner (see “Fat Girl Running #1 for others) is because it's an interesting process. I imagine being an advance runner is too- we'll see when they get there. Running is analogous to lots of things we do in life that aren't easy, but have payoff. I'm learning a lot about myself. Like many worthwhile things, it's sometimes hard. I could use some caring witnesses, I could use some support.

An Egret Watches Me Trot By

I do not - I REPEAT- I do not need advice. I have great guidance and I'm being smart. I've already had enough of people telling me why "it's not a good idea". Thanks for your concern, or whatever it is, but please keep it to yourself.

(On a side note- I'm finding myself particularly sensitive to unasked for advice lately. I mean, really- if you’re going to offer advice, at least ask more questions first and find out if your advice is even applicable. If you just want to hear yourself talk about how much you know, then start your own damn blog.)
But I digress....again. I used to say “danger” is my middle name, but I'm recently thinking it should be “digression”.

Where was I.... oh, right....

There are several websites out there that will give you programs to follow based on where you're starting and where you want to get to. This is the one I'm using: http://running.about.com/

More information than I can possibly use, on everything from running schedules, when to eat, how to shop for shoes, where to run, posture, to how to lose weight at it. I like the options available in types of programs. They've got a lot of option in terms of running programs and you’re sure to find one that fits your needs. When I looked at the schedule for the “Perpare to Run Your First 5K” , I knew I wasn't ready. The website conveniently told me that the 3 weeks to a 30 Minute Running Habit” program would get me ready for the 5K. Sometimes downgrading is good!

When I had a question about the schedule, I emailed Christine Luff, the creator of said torture regimen, and she responded right away.

And this is all free. All I've spent so far was *mumbledymumble* for shoes and $5 for a kitchen cooking timer. Okay okay- I spent $16 for the shoes. That’s horrible I know- they’re terribly cheap shoes and my feet deserve better, yaddah yaddah, but seriously- the ones I was running with were HORRIBLE and these feel amaaaazing after those. They're mid-grade running shoes that I found an unbelievable deal on. Like I said somewhere else, I promised myself a much better pair of shoes if I stick with it.

I'm sure they make a timer that is just for these type of training programs, something you can program to change the times for you and keep track of your distance, etc. But the kitchen timer works just fine, even if it’s a little bit of a hassle to keep resetting it. If anyone has one of the fancier models that actually made for this, I would be thrilled to take it off your hands!

I could also use some CAKE for my IPod. Just sayin.

Here’s the schedule I'm currently running. For the folks who were concerned I was gonna walk out the door, try to run a marathon and drop dead in the street, you can see that I'm running gradually increasing increments of minutes at a time, alternating with walking. It’s easy cheezy. Really. An almost embarassingly gentle buildup. So you can relax with the permanent damage and death predictions.

My goal is to run a 5K this year. That’s a little over 3 miles and very doable. I used to run 5 miles a few times a week, so 5K? Pfthththtt! Give me a couple months and I’ll be able to do it in my sleep. Better chain me to my bed.

But that’s a whole other kind of training regimen.

Where was I?

Ah....

Here's the training schedule from About.Com. They email my daily assignment to me, but I can also go to the site and see the whole three weeks ahead:

3 Weeks to a 30 Minute Running Habit

Day 1: 1/1 x 10 (Run 1 minute, walk 1 minute, ten times, for a total of 20 minutes.)
Day 2: 1/1 x 10
Day 3: Rest
Day 4: 2/1 x5, then 1/1 x5
Day 5: 2/1 x5, then 1/1 x5
Day 6: Rest
Day 7: 2/1 x6
Day 8: 3/1 x4, then 1/1 x4
Day 9: 2/1 x 6
Day 10: Rest
Day 11: 3/1 x5
Day 12: 2/1 x8
Day 13: Rest
Day 14: 3/1 x5
Day 15: 4/1 x4
Day 16: 2/1 x8
Day 17: 5/1 x4
Day 18: Rest
Day 19: 4/1 x6
Day 20: 2/1 x5
Day 21: 5/1 x5

Today I did day 9. It was harder than yesterday, which makes no logical sense, since yesterday was longer and I did increments of 3 minutes. Today should’ve been easier. But it just wasn’t . Who knows why? I just woke up not-as-good-a-runner as I was yesterday. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up a track star. One of the things living with chronic pain has taught me is, “This is my body today. Now what do I want to do, what can I do, that feels reasonable and lifey given that this is what my body is telling me?” I may have to spend some running days in bed. I just don't know.

But not today. Today I ran my little 2/1 x 6’s and it was hard. But it still felt good to do it. A couple people waved at me today. Maybe they’re FB friends. I couldn't see through the sweat in my eyes. Or maybe they've been watching me do this almost-the-same-route for the past week + and we’re getting to be running buddies of a sort. I don't care really. It was just nice to get a smile and a wave.

Tomorrow, I get a day off. I’ll probably do some walking and stretching. But that’s tomorrow. Tonight I get to go see Phil Donahue and a screening of a documentary he co-produced and Eddie-my-Guru-Vedder did all original music for:

Body of War

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1HZuQkITY64.

I <3 Phil. I saw my first polyamorous triad on Phil, a Marilyn Manson interview that changed my life, queers and lesbians galore and so much more. Phil's work changed my life for the better. This is one of the things my Mom got right- exposing me to Phil.

I wonder if Phil is a runner?

Fat Girl Running #1: Starting Somewhere

In Which We Have Words About Words And 

                                       I Come Out as a Hardcore Beginner

Today was day 8 of my “running” program (I keep using the quotes, even when I'm talking on the phone, I can hear them in my voice, because to call what I'm doing “running” is something of a stretch. I'm definitely going faster than walking. Sorta... a little).

Obviously, I'm fighting the urge to qualify it, to minimize. I'm a beginning jogger. Not beginning in the mental sense, because I've done this before, but it’s been awhile and since I got sick with Lyme disease, not at all. So I know the head space, I have the information, but physically I'm a beginner again- I ain't got much stamina. So I'm taking it very, very, veeeeery easy- starting slow and working up gently.

Hence the qualifications: "I've started a, you know...kinda sorta running program". But I'm tired of downplaying it. An edge is an edge is an edge. I'm pushing my edges physically and that's challenging, whether you're going from not running at all to running at .01399 miles per hour for half a mile, or  working up from 10 miles a day to 15. So I deserve some credit, even if I'm currently moving at the pace of a diseased, aged, 3 legged mole rat for only a few minutes at a time. From where I've been standing (sitting, laying, collapsing), that’s a lot! It’s relative. I'm gonna quit not taking myself seriously. I'm a hardcore beginner. Hear me roar.

I'm calling the posts on running “Fat Girl Running”.  I know people get offended at the word “fat” and that’s why I'm using it-  it’s just a word and I'm tired of all the bad press it’s gotten. Poor "fat"- layoff it already! It’s three little letters put together in a certain way and I don't mind saying “I'm fat”. I mind if I say it meanly. I mind if you say it meanly, but I don't mind it as a descriptive word any more than I mind: curvacious, chubby, plump, round, bodacious, lush... (lush is fun. I like "lush"). It’s time to reclaim “fat" as the benign descriptive word it is. We've all got it. We cannot, in fact, live without it. It's just fat. Relax already.

And “girl”- well, if we haven't yet had this discussion, there isn't a pronoun for what I feel like I am. So mostly, I make do with “girl” or “woman" because that’s what people see when they see D cups. I'm pretty much okay with that since there isn't a preferable alternative. And finally, overall I think “Fat Girl" has more punchy irreverence than “Fat Human”. Girls have definitely, in my opinion, gotten a helluva lot more heat for being fat than boys have, though I know fat boys haven't had an easy time of it either.

I'm sometimes a little self-conscious about being a fat girl running. I imagine people watching me jiggle down the road  and laughing, thinking things like, “Good luck old lady” (not only am I fat, but I'm 48- double dork points) and “don't have a heart attack” and “looks like two pigs fighting under a blanket! Bwahahahaha.... “ (yes, I stole it from Steel Magnolias. I couldn't think of anything better. If you're gonna steal, steal from the masters). Even worse, sometimes I imagine them feeling pity for me, those young firm fit punks driving by in their muscle cars.

The reality is, there’s probably a little of that going on, but not nearly as much as I imagine. Experience has shown me that in my mind, the world is an infinitely crueler place than it is in reality. Thankfully. Most people don't think anything, could care less even. Experience has also shown me that at least a few of those people are thinking, “good for you! Dude, I've been thinking about it for awhile now.... if you can do it, what’s stopping me?” They notice my smile, the little swing in my hips as I run to “Go" by Pearl Jam, they look out at the beautiful day and they wanna be a part of all that. They feel inspired.

And I guarantee you, some older fat person is gonna feel like she has permission. Because I'm taking the leap and embarassing myself in public. And I'm surviving. That’s a wonderful thing to know, that me being willing to flash my humanness to the world can be inspiring. It's not why I'm doing it, but it certainly adds some spicy goodness.

That’s one of the reasons I'm writing about it here: because I'm hoping it might inspire some of you to do something you've been thinking about for awhile, something that lights you up or that at the very least you feel would be good for you to try. It might not be running- maybe it's dancing, swimming, painting, kissing, wearing slinky velvet pants, getting a mohawk (that’s another post for another day), whatever. I promise you that whatever you want to try, there are resources out there available to you to help you do it, there are other people doing it and they are happy to support you doing it. If you're worried about looking silly, well, decide how much you're gonna let other peoples opinions be bars on the windows of the house that is you. Seriously- that’s what it comes down to. There is no end to the amount of juicy privileges and joys that those fears will rob you of.

The new shoes. I promised myself if I stick with it, I'll spring
for a giant upgrade when it's time to get new ones.
(and yeah- they're silver space man shoes. :o})

How do you want to live, feel, love, be; what do you want to do with your one precious life and who's gonna decide how much permission you have? It’s not against the law to run down the street, all 200 pounds of me jigglin and wigglin to Godsmack, puffin and blowin, and causing the earth to tremble as I come (baBOOM ba BOOM). And besides, it makes me feel so. damn. good. to do it. No snarky little punk’s sneer, imagined or otherwise, is gonna keep me from it.

I make a big noise, but the truth is, I say these things because I need to hear them. Often.

Next time you wanna get out on the dance floor and shake your money maker, but your worried about how you’ll look, think about me heading down the back roads of the bottoms outside Arcata, looking like the Pillsbury Dough Girl in a tye dye shirt and a mohawk, with oh-so-sharp-and-comfy new space age joggin shoes, alternately grimacing and smiling like an idiot. Feel free to feel cooler-by-comparison. I don't mind. Just don't tell me about it.

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” ~ Howard Thurman

I was on my way to the Marsh to meet a friend after my run today and there, heading down a busy main street, were two adorable young fattish girls running together. They were absolutely beautiful. My heart sang out, "You GO GIRLS!"  I was completely inspired. Again.

I am in a RUNNING program. Go ME!

Radical Gratitude

Thankfulness brings you to the place where the Beloved lives. ~Rumi

I'm often surprised by how people are surprised by my level of gratitude. Even when the proverbial shit is hitting the fan, I'm usually experiencing and expressing some degree of gratitude. There was a time even I might have looked at me now and been surprised. But these days it's become such a part of my outlook, I'm often like: what? Big deal. Yeah I'm grateful AND I'm crushed, scared, unsure, angry, and lost. And grateful. All at once. Neato, huh?

I credit this to years of daily gratitude practice. One of my first teachers used to have me do this when I was feeling sorry for myself: open the refrigerator door, stand there and say, "Thank you for the mayonnaise. Thank you for the apples. Thank you for the eggs. Thank you for the soy sauce. Thank you for the bell pepper (but I'm allergic! Say it anyway...). Thank you for the moldy bread."  Okay, maybe not the moldy bread. But then again, maybe. It's all in how you look at it. There was a time I was so hungry, I would've eaten that fuzzy semi-sentient mass in the corner (seriously- you don't even wanna know!). But now, I am blessed with such an abundance, I can just throw it on the compost pile and resolve to not let it get moldy next time.

Later, other pain in the ass teachers had me do things like make gratitude lists, thank people for teaching me through adversity, look for gifts in every wound, yadda yadda yadda. It's sometimes tedious when I'm just getting a good run of suffering going to toss some gratitude in the soup, but it always helps loosen things up a bit, balance things out some. After all, there's rarely ALL curses or ALL blessings happening at any given time.

This may sound like a lotta silly frilly nonsense, but it works. Go ahead, keep shying away because you're too cool. You can hang onto your victimhood as long as you like. If that mojo is still workin for you, keep at it. Me, I got tired.

And I tell you this- this kind of silly frilly shit has saved my life over and over again. The simple little magics that I thought were ridiculous and silly and way, waaaaay beneath me; these things have been my salvation. I was finally so tired that I didn't have the energy to be too cool for anything. I got smarter, way more foolish and a helluva lot more alive and okayish.

Ye Olde Gratitude Onion

These are the ways of radical trust and gratitude. This is the kind of gratitude practice that takes it far beyond Polly Anna style "everything's groovy and I'm gonna plaster a smile on my face". This is gratitude that coexists quite nicely next to terror, pain and full on raging rebellion. Yes, I will have it all, thank you very much.



The path I came to embrace (when I wasn't running screaming from it) is one of radical inclusion, radical living, radical showing up for every nuance of what's actually there, as much as possible. No pretending. Sometimes a little acting for the purpose of practice, but acting is not lying to oneself or anyone else- acting is conscious, honest playing. Not the same thing as faking with the intention of fooling.

So, here I am-  In my worst moments, I'm grateful I have a heart to break, 'cause there was a time I could feel almost nothing and walked around in a daze of foggy numbed out survivitude wondering what the point was. I'm so so so grateful for a fully functioning emotional life, that I can feel a range of things on a daily basis and that I have language for those things and people who speak it with me.

I'm still living with this Lyme disease thing, in pain most days, exhausted almost every day and still grateful. I can be mad and whiny and hurting and still be grateful.In my worst moments, I'm grateful for the ability to walk, even though it hurts like hell- at least I'm off the couch and I still have this body to maneuver. We're in bodies such a short time. Even a hurting body is better than no body, which will come soon enough. Though honestly, at some of my worster times I have not thought a hurting body was better and I just wanted out, but that was while ago, and a rare and especially horrible time- a time for which I am now grateful. It taught me a lot, but mostly I'm  just grateful not to be there right now. This pain is just a nuisance, but it's also a precious, if fierce, teacher.

There's more. Oh, so much more. I don't even know what I'm expressing gratitude TO. And it doesn't matter. The benefits are mine and undeniable. That's what counts in my world. Does it work? Meaning, does it bring me closer to where I want to be in terms of my living and feeling and being? Then I don't care how silly it may seem. If it helps me, I'm in.

Here's my gratitude list for today:

I have a bed to sleep in.
I have awesome new jeans and don't have to shop again for another six months. Woot!
I am fed and warm (but not too warm).
I have coffee and the means to make me some.
I have time to write and I'm using it.

I have things to say and I'm willing to be a fool and say them. Out loud. Where people can hear me.

I have so very very much love in my life. I'm grateful to be able to explore the many facets of those loves without having to consider the affects on someone else. For this reason and others, it's really amazingly wonderful to be single.

I'm grateful for the state of homelessness at this point in my life, as it affords me profound freedom.

I'm profoundly grateful for all the people that say, "don't leave", "stay as long as you like", "come back soon", when for years all I heard was "get. the. fuck. out." and "lose my number". I was a mess. Jeeze- I love that mess I was, but it's so wonderful to be cherished and fought over. There was a time I thought the day would never come and I'm still regularly stunned to be wanted in such a way. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

and dark in the light.... 

I am grateful for a heart that breaks, a body that aches, a soul that longs, dreams that are as long and deep as the ocean, that will never ever be fully satisfied in one lifetime. Boredom? Really?!?!


I'm grateful for brown eyes that make me forget what I was going to say when I look into them. I'm grateful that this can still amaze and humble me (I wonder if you will read this and I will be yet further humbled...).

I'm glad to be so easily amused, entertained, moved and awed. I see magic everywhere.

I'm grateful for the people who made me make silly gratitude lists, as a way to remind me to keep balanced in the midst of challenge. They taught me to see the whole truth, which isn't just about what's hard (or denying that), but also what's working, what's beautiful. They taught me that it's all lifey and that's what it's all about- showing up for the real. I'm grateful for my own willingness to do silly things, to be teachable.

There's a woman in a group I admin on Facebook who's regularly posting snippets of gratitude. It's been a beautiful reminder. Thank you Cari. I'm grateful for your new found friendship and the way your living ripples out and affects mine in such a beautiful way. You are the inspiration for this post.

The Daddy Shirt 

Thank you for the peanut butter.
Thank you for my car and my sleeping bag.
Thank you for vitamins.
Thank you for puppy smell.
Thank you for the Daddy shirt that makes me smile.
Thank you for my son and his lovely love.









I'm grateful for all of you and this amazing connection we share. Thanks for being part of my universe and letting me co-create in yours. We pretty much rock.

Not All Who Wander Are Lost...

Along the Alaska Canada Highway.

Nor are they necessarily found. Some of us are kinda lound...maybe a little fost.

One definition of wanderlust is a desire to travel, in order to understand one's very existence. Seems I'm about to undertake some further study in that regard. Maybe. I'm not sure, but possibly. Or not. That page of my instruction manual seems to be missing.

What's a trip without baggage?

When I ask my inner/higher/universal self what's next for me, it points at boxes to pack, meals to eat, meditation to... (do nothing with....?), I get the basic outline for the next few weeks or so. "But what about this summer? What about the rest of the year? Where is home? Where am I going to live? And what the hell is my life's work meant to be while we're at it????" And spirit says, "First eat this meal, wash this dish, pack this box, call so-and-so, do some writing and try not to worry so much. You're exhausting yourself...."


Fine. Fuck you. Then I eat the meal, wash the dish, and so on.

Drifting in the Fog- It's Not So Bad....
Til you run out of food. Or into an island. 

Spirit is being stingy with the marching orders in the past few years. Since my life was upended, the rug pulled out from under and I wanted to die. Tried to actually, only to fail at that as well. At which point I demanded  (righteously angry, and appropriately so!) that the Universe had a little 'splainin to do in regards to just what the hell I was kept around for. At that point the information started trickling in. And I do mean trickling. It's like I'm traveling through a fog. I can sense an expansive landscape around and ahead, I can hear things moving around out there, but I can't see any of it yet. I get glimpses occasionally, but it's like that parable about the people who can only see a foot of the elephant at a time: the person at the tail describes a snake, the person at the tusk describes a spear, the person at the flank describes a wizened old person. They're all right, but they're all profoundly mistaken in thinking they see the whole picture. The only difference between me and them is that I know I'm not seeing it all. I desperately want to, but I only get these little pieces of the puzzle handed to me from time to time. It's frustrating and exciting and sometimes I wonder if I'm just losing my mind.

I hear Adyashanti's voice telling me, "You're not going crazy. You're going sane."

Fine. But how does a person who's going-sane-but-not-quite-there-yet pay the rent in the meantime? And why is it taking so fucking long to see the game plan?

A ship is safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are for. ~William Shedd

The sun rising over the Alaska-Canada highway on my
trip home last year.  I was listening to "gold lions gonna
tell me where the light is...." on a cd that my niece made for
me as the sun rose.  *magic*

I know that god knows exactly where I'm headed. Maybe not in detail, but in overall shape and feeling. God's just not sharing. The information is handed out on a strictly need-to-know basis, with god and I apparently unable to agree on the definition of "need" in this case. Sometimes I'm wicked frustrated. I suppose that's obvious.





Sometimes I long for a home in the sense of a specific place. Instead I keep learning that home is everywhere, bigger and more interesting than I ever imagined. Sometimes I want one love in my life, someone to focus on and around, to have sex with them and only them, to have and to hold, to know who exactly "my people" is. Instead, I keep learning that settling is a kind of spiritual death and that it's healthy to have a bottom line in terms of how I want to be treated. I keep learning that there is more love in the world than my heart could ever imagine and if I'm going to stay honest with myself and others, I can't hold that tightly anymore. Sometimes I want a gorram paycheck damnit. I think ART SUCKS as a profession and I just want a good ole office job I can clock in and out of again, wherein at the end of the week there is (did I mention this already?) A PAYCHECK. Instead I keep learning that living on less is a kind of freedom and that again, settling is a kind of death in terms of work too. I keep seeing that my body won't let me do that anymore. Bitch.

All the while, I can hear a song in the distance. It's faint sometimes, but it's like nothing I've ever heard and I want it more than all the security I used to long for (used to...ha). Sometimes it's hard to hear under the grumbling, the tears, the distractions and the white noise of confusion. But when I get quiet in the aftermath of a tantrum, there it is, hummin just beyond reach and something in me *knows*. Sometimes it's roaring like a waterfall and I'm flying along the current in utter blissful abandon. Those times help sustain me when I'm being battered by rapids, cursing the river only to realize that I'm battered because I'm hanging on to that branch as the current slams me into it again and again. Then I let go and trust. Again. And grab hold. Again. And let go. Again. and again and again and...

Long ago, I thought I would reach a state of utter trust and not doubt anymore. Ever. Hilarious!

What I know right now is that the fears, anxieties, stresses, desires don't go away, but my relationship to them has changed profoundly. I may rant and rave a bit (it's a great way to clear stress toxins out of the body), but I just can't take those doubts too seriously anymore. I've seen over and over what kind of magic happens when I'm willing to live with "I don't know" and just take the next indicated step. My trust muscles have gotten amazingly strong (relatively speaking) over the past few years. Sometimes I want it all to come faster. But bread takes as long to rise as it takes. Weather is weather. Every step is an integral part of the journey. And honestly, I am undoing and rebuilding some heavy shit here. It is deserving of more than a hack job.

Yukon Rainbow

The last time I was truly at a turning point and not sure what was next, I got a phone call from a dear one who was going to Alaska and invited me along. I stayed a year, made amazing friends, saw and did incredible things, was forever changed by it. I could not have done that if I'd plugged myself in somewhere just to be plugged in, not without a lot of painful unplugging anyway. I have several of those kinds of stories. I fully expect to have another one by the end of the year (my demands list to spirit's ear!).




In a few days I'll put what remains of my belongings into storage again, load up my car and take the next indicated step. I have a fair idea of what I'm doing through the end of June, after that- it's anybody's guess. There are longings pulling me in several directions and, so far, spirit is quiet on the matter. When I ask, "But what about the end of June??? I'LL BE HOMELESS FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!! What am I supposed to be doing?", spirit chucklehums and says, "Well, first of all you need to eat some food. Then you really ought to clear off the bed so you have somewhere to sleep tonight. After that, make a list of what you want to do tomorrow- you know that'll help you sleep. Then do the dishes and go to bed. Sleep sucker. You're gonna need it."

Alien. It's all a matter of where you're standing. 

Fine. I can do that. And between now and the end of June, I'll be the one exploring, grumbling, dancing, bitching, quaking in my boots now and then, then laughing my ass off as I await further instructions and grope around the elephants ass.

Say a prayer for me. It would be a kindness.

Holy, Holey, Whole

I'm a socialist at heart; if I have extra and you need some, it's yours. The problem I sometimes have is determining if I actually have extra. I end up passing out my own rations and going hungry. That's okay once in awhile, but if I keep doing it without you doing what it takes to bring in your own food, we're both gonna be hungry and at some point, I won't have what it takes to bring more food in anymore either. If that keeps up, eventually we're both starving, desperate husks, our desiccated fingers pointing and mummy lips snarling in each others general directions. 

   

But that's what I learned of love growing up: we may be impaired, malnourished, suffering souls, but all we have is each other and we must stick together no matter what, giving whatever it takes to keep the other alive on meager resources. If we don't stick together in the pit, we just end up in the pit alone. The only thing worse than a crazy, filthy pit dweller is a lonely one, damnit.

Occasionally, one of us would try to crawl outta the hole and the other pit dwellers were quick to pull them down. We didn't do it consciously; we were unconsciously carrying on the chain of abuse, doing what had been done to us, what we'd learned to do. On a deeper level, we were afraid- afraid for the climber: it's dangerous out there, are you crazy? Stick with the tribe man. Besides we need you. Another part of us was terrified: what if they actually make it? What the hell will that mean for me?  That means that the story starts to crumble and the earth under my own feet suddenly becomes questionable.

We can see this same dynamic at play in the culture around us all the time. "Who are you to be free? Get back down here bitch!" Sometimes it even looks like, "Damnit, I LOVE you!"; even, "I'm doing this FOR YOUR OWN GOOD."

So it can be freaky to watch someone get out, to watch someone even try to get out. As hole dwellers, we rarely have words for these feelings, especially if we're used to living in a daily state of low level panic, fear and anxiety. These were daily companions in my growing up home and are for many of us today. As kids we weren't capable of naming our feelings, much less identifying why we were snapping at someone's heels as they tried to exit. We may be adults on the outside now, but some of us are still kids-in-the-hole on the inside. 

  

Some of us learn this kind of giving as a way to survive or at least keeping our companions-of-the-hole by our sides. As a kid, it was a survival thing imprinted on me early- keep her alive so she doesn't leave me, because the alternative was (literally) death. Many of us have our own versions of this in varying strengths and for a lot of us, it's now costing us our own life force if not outright killing us (literally).

So, if I'm really honest with myself, when I'm giving too much, my motives aren't all that pure anyway. There's at least a tinge of "if I take care of you, you won't die and leave me alone" involved. It isn't pretty, but there it is. It's left over from my days in El Mundo Malo, the Country of the Dead, where Queen Wasp ruled with an iron fist and I dashed myself bloody on her studded skirts in desperate bids for love and sustenance. There's rewiring to do yet. I'm on it. I can even see that the seed of "taking care of each other" is a healthy biological survival imperative that gets warped beyond reason by extreme situations. How do we know when help isn't healthy anymore? 

There is no hard and fast rule for how much help is too much. Our best bet is guidance from our feelings, intuition, or a trusted source, inner or outer. I have trouble listening to that guidance sometimes. Especially when I love someone. The more I love them, the more bonded we are, then the more likely the code "keep giving no matter what" is to kick in, particularly when they're struggling. It's a challenge that still gets triggered in certain situations.

This is what I know as of right now:

Tho he didn't go joyfully...

1) Crawling in the hole with someone only means that now there are two people in the hole. Maybe they aren't as lonely anymore, but still- it's a hole. Holes can be nice sometimes, but do you wanna live your life in one? Even Smeagol got out eventually. Besides, there is lots and lots of company to be had outside the hole too. And trust me, some of them will be thrilled to hang out with you and it won't cost you a thing (Look ma, no blood price!)

2) Standing on the edge of a hole while someone in the hole pulls on you constantly will wear you out. If you expend too much energy trying to get them out of that hole, you will eventually fall back in yourself. This isn't the end of the world- you can get out again, but it's fucking exhausting. Or you could die on the edge of that hole with your arm hanging out of it's socket, having missed a lot of great concerts. And your buddy in the hole will still be in it. So, do both of you and the world a favor and make sure you do what it takes to stay out of the hole and out of tug-games at the edge of the hole. Remember, your own oxygen mask first!

3) If you're out of the hole, then you have an amazing gift to offer the hole dweller: You speak holey language and the person at the bottom of that pit is more likely to hear you, believe you more than one who hasn't done their time in the hole. This may be the most important thing you have to share with a person in a hole:   

If you got out of the hole, anyone else can get out. Period. You may indeed have what look like superpowers, but you didn't have them when you were in the hole either. Like me, you probably worked super hard for those superpowers and so can they. But often they don't wanna hear that. I didn't want to hear it when I was stuck, starving and dying. The person in that hole is scared shitless. Remember that when they're cussing and cursing you for a cold hearted bitch as you smile at them from the outside or (the nerve of you) walk away. They're terrified. They might like nothing more from that vantage point than to pull you back in and say, "See? There really is no 'out of the hole'. I knew it. Let's just stay down here and eat each other." 

They might try the falling apart, heart wrenching sobbing, don't-leave-me bit too. There's no blame in it. It's a tried and true tactic among hole dwellers, system approved- you remember. Of course they're sad. Pits can be sad, wretched places. The question is, what are they going to do about it? Not, what are YOU going to do about it. Their hole = their climb.

Don't fall for these or any other "grappling" tactics. Stick to what you know. The perspective of an ex-hole dweller is especially valuable to the still holey one, not just because you've been there, but because now you're not. What good are you to them if you move back into Holeville? From outside, you can describe the scenery, the quality of the air, what it's like to run, sail, fly and see vast distances. You can tell them how you escaped. You can break trail, leave bread crumbs and come back to tell of your adventures. If they aren't really ready to climb out, but just want you to save them (translate: ease their pain by filling up their holes inside- black holes that can't really be filled anyway and will eat up your known universe like The Nothing. Dramatic? Hell yeah it's dramatic! Take this shit seriously. It's your life.)...... erm.....where was I....

If they just want to be rescued, they'll probably find your message irritating as hell- can't you just save them already and shut the fuck up? You may eventually have to walk away, having passed on what you have to share, and know that you will see them out in the big ole non-hole world sometime. Or not. Either way, sometimes you just have to let it go. After all....

4) The only one who can really save us is ourselves. Really. Of course we can help each other out along the way, but each of us has to make a decision, a commitment to our own freedom in order to get on the path. I can't do it for you, you can't do it for me. It's an inside job and though we don't have to do it alone, we do have to do it ourselves.

5) There are a plethora (secksy work alert!) of resources out there. I promise you, you are not the only one in the world that can help this particular hole dweller. If you honestly feel that it would be damaging to you or them in some way, SAY NO and point them in the direction of another resource. The world is full of resources, some sources are even more abundant and more appropriate than you. It's okay to say "no". Hear that? It's okay to say "no". It's okay to say "no". It's okay to say "no". Say it with me: It's okay to say "no". Say it LOUD, like you MEAN IT: IT'S OKAY TO SAY 'NO'! woot!!!

Does that make you cringe a little? No worries. Me too. Say it anyway, do it anyway. It gets easier and your self will thank you for it. And who knows, the hole dweller may one day also. Some of the biggest helps I got along the way came when people walked away. It was painful and I even hated them a little, but now I see how they helped me wake up. Not only is it okay to say "NO", it may even be better for the denyee too. It's healthy to have a bottom line. 

But don't expect the hole dweller to agree with you. After all, they probably don't know this for themselves yet. How can they allow it for you? 

6) I read this in The Wanderground by Sally Miller Gearhart an age of moons ago: That which I give that does not come from my overflow is poison (paraphrased). That means it's not good for anybody, including the hole dweller you're trying to rescue, for you to give, in a way that damages you. Make sure your own well is full before you go givin away all your water. That way, you and your horses live to ride another day, spreading the teachings of liberation and well diggin across the land. And you get to dance and eat sushi and be Whole. Dessicated husks in holes just get to be holey. Maybe that's your thing- just remember, you have choice. It's easy to forget that in a hole. 

Sometimes people know there's more than life in a hole, but they don't want to do the difficult, amazing, sometimes tedious work of doing what it takes to get out of the hole. They want to latch onto you like a velcro monkey, pretend they're you and get carried into where you are in life, just like that, *presto bang*. But even if you manage to pull both of you back from the edge, it doesn't work that way. Because "No matter where you go, there you are" applies here too. They could step into your life, but they'll be walking dynamite in a terrain that they have no tools for, the tools you've developed through doing the work (and you know what dynamite makes when it blows, right? A new hole). It's like putting someone in the drivers seat of a plane without the hours of training it takes to be ready. Disaster is assured. It isn't their world yet, they have to grow into it themselves, in their own plodding, tortuous, miraculous way.

There are no shortcuts to saving your own life. Believe me, I tried them all and found them false. The only way out is through, for each of us. Not only is it bad for me to try to carry someone when I can barely carry myself some days, but it robs them of their own experience, the gifts that the struggles and discoveries bring. Sometimes I hate this- I want to be able to save them. If I was farther along, I'd stop putting energy where it does no good; I'd stop giving to the point that I'm exhausted and angry; or I'd be able to stand at the side of a hole, dribble some water on the hole dwellers eyes, say "arise and walk" and *poof*- that would be that- less hole people and more dancers in the moonlight. I would be an Un-Holey Saint. I'm not there yet and maybe I never should be, but it's an understandable wish.

It's not like the work stops once you're out of the hole anyway. In fact, the work/play/self-creation process is actually the whole point. Getting out of the hole is just the beginning. That's when you really start to get on with it. The good news is, it gets more and more fun as you go, in ways you can't even begin to imagine if you're still in the hole. Wanna find out? Here.... here's a life line and instructions. If you have questions holler~ loud! Help will come, but you've still gotta do your own climbing.

Happy Little Flow Chart

I love this little flow chart. It reminds me of one of the simplest principles that's also one of the easiest to forget. It in no way stands as an endorsement by me of Happiness-as-the-optimal-choice. All choices are valid. Rare is it that we have a simple choice between something making us happy and not. Most times, the choices we make as grown ups make some parts of us happy and others, not so much so. I know too that "happy" and "unhappy" aren't the only possibilities there are in terms of our emotional state. Is a woman in transitional labor happy or not? Is someone happy who's apologizing sincerely for a mistake they made that caused someone grief? 

Our culture seems to have an addiction to happiness, thinking that somehow if we just do the right things, we can get to a place where we've arrived at Happy Land and can coast the rest of the way on Happy Wings. This illusion and our do-anything-to-avoid-pain approach to life actually causes a lot of harm, even violence, emotional and physical. Sometimes doing the thing that makes us NOT happy (or comfortable or relaxed or carefree or...), sometimes that unhappy-making thing is exactly the right thing to do. 

What I do mean to endorse is aware, conscious choice. We don't have to be victims of our lives, historical or otherwise. We can't always choose what happens to us, but we can choose our actions, attitudes, belief systems. We can control a lot more than most of us think we can. It may take some work to get past the blocks that keep us from availing ourselves of all the options that are open to us, but if we're willing to do the work, freedom is always there waiting for us. It's the sun that is no less there just because there are storm clouds between it and our rain drenched heads. 


The more we own our power of choice and the consequences for those choices, the more we'll be able to create the kind of experience that we want to have in the world. There are consequences for every choice we make, including doing nothing, including standing still. We each have to decide what consequences we're willing to live with. Staying in a situation that makes us unhappy may be the better option for us at the moment. That's okay. No one can decide that but you. However, as long as we keep telling ourselves we're trapped, then we are, but only by our own beliefs. We're not trapped; we're choosing.


We almost always have choice in actions (unless we're handcuffed or the like and even then we do, within narrower parameters) and we always, always have choice of response. And therein lies our growth and our power. 

Neither Hair Nor There

Me n my mop.

I have a lotta hair. I get compliments on it, which is awkward because I don't do anything but leave it alone. I mean, I was born with it. So, eh... It's long mostly because I'm lazy, though I also like the feel of it on my nekkid back- it's a sensual treat. Getting it petted is fun too. Super short or super long, you're bound to get some pettin o' the head. Every once in awhile I'll go in and pay someone to trim it for me, just so I can get it brushed and toyed with. *ecstasy* Sometimes, there's just nothing like the touch of a professional. Heh.

This is not a photo of me~ by Olga Proana

I'm a natural redhead of the not-coppery variety. When I was a kid, that was totally not cool. It was one of the things that got me harassed a lot. Then as a teenager, not quite as much, but still- there was a lot of "redheads are trouble" with much knowing nods of the head (as if those 16 year olds had enough experience to even form an opinion). Other tags for reds were: slutty, passionate, temperamental and witchy. I still get some of that today, but less. Whatever. I always wanted to have straight glossy black hair. I don't know where that desire came from, but it was constant until I hit early early adult years. 

Like many things in life, it remains a mystery.

When I was a young woman I did all kinds of things to my hair without changing the basic color, but eventually I got tired of messing with it. It was right around the time I was a single mom, going to school, working and playing in a band. I started to wonder at just how much time I spent everyday with makeup, shaving, styling my hair and squeezing into uncomfortable clothes. Why, when I could like... SLEEP an extra hour? So I saved the big ToDo for performances and special occasions and started going natural the rest of the time. I liked it. It had the unlooked for benefit of making me feel friendlier to my body over time too, like I kept giving myself the message over and over that how I looked was just fine without all the enhancements and manipulations. My self-image responded well. The big ToDo nights started to feel a little like doing drag and it was a lot more fun when it was an option instead of a daily requirement.

It was not a cool thing to do at that time and place. The area I grew up in was pretty conservative and women (men as well) were expected to apparel themselves a certain way. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Then I got my nose pierced- three times. I know that's not much now, but at the time I was one of three women I saw in a 5 year period that had it done even once. I had a wonderful conversation with a woman in her 50s that was working a boutique where I was shopping for nose jewelry. She told me with a smile, "You know, when I was a young woman, I was told that only sluts got their ears pierced. That didn't stop me. It's all fashion honey. Don't let 'em get to you."

I didn't. I kept growing my hair out, stopped shaving and wearing makeup. I eventually got visible tattoos and got more piercings. Whatever. It's my body.


For the past 10 years or so, red hair has gotten increasingly popular. After all the teasing I put up with as a kid, forgive me if I get a little snarky about it sometimes. Walking down the street some days, I can be heard quietly remarking to my companions: bottle, bottle, bottle, real, bottle... Hey, at least I don't yell it out... usually. 

About 10 years ago, I buzzed my head. I'd been thinking about it for years and it was just... time. I was going through a breakup, I was starting to perform more of my own music. People were always going on about my hair like it was something personal I'd created or my best quality. I wanted to know what it would be like to be me without my hair. How would it be to happily, willingly rid myself of something that so many people identified with me that really had nothing to do with who I was? Something that is so clearly identified as a feminine characteristic- long hair? And most importantly, just what shape was my head under all that freakin hair?

This is not me either, but that's the same cut.  Somewhere I have ONE photo of that buzz.
When I find it, I'm framing it. Dude, this makes me wanna do it again....

It was amazingly liberating! I felt exposed and open to the world and people in a way I never quite had. My head felt light and open, the skin so happy to feel sun and wind. It was cold though. I hadn't thought about the fact that it was fall and all that hair had been keeping my upper extremities warm for years. And thus began my collection of hats and scarves...

The most interesting thing to me was people's reactions. People seemed to either love or hate it. There wasn't a lot of neutral reaction. Which is fine. What was not fine is that so many seemed to feel they had the right to tell me what they thought. A lot of people that I barely knew, even strangers that only knew my face from performing or walking around town, would volunteer their fervent opinions: Whaddya wanna look like a freak for? Why would you want to look ugly? Oh your poor poor hair! I can hardly look at you. One instructor said, "I think it's more dignified when older women cut their hair short, don't you? Good for you. It's a sign of your acceptance of your mature status." What the fuck? I was like, 35 at the time. Arg. People just love to spray you with the fog of their own biases and opinions. Some people just stared in a stricken way, turned and walked away. I was shocked at how strongly people felt about hair that wasn't even their own. It was proprietary and weird. 

The people I really enjoyed were the ones who asked me (imagine!) how I felt about it. Thank you, where ever you are....

Hair grows back, though slooooowly. I realized soon after I buzzed it that if I wanted to keep it short, I'd need to do upkeep every month or so and I didn't want to. So I started growing it back out again, which was tedious, but also symbolic for other things that were "growing back" in my life. Patience was the order of the day- persistence and patience.

I don't change mine that much anymore, basically because I'm lazy. I think about it now and then, but then I think about growing it back out again and it makes me leave it alone. People talk about how much work long hair is, but I don't know what they mean. It's so easy. I trim it every 4 months or so, I wash it 3 times a week. If it's bugging me, I pull it back; if it's cold out or I feel like hiding, I leave it down. I can do things with it, decorate my head to express a mood or attract someone's attention. In my experience, short hair takes a lot more maintenance. 

Finally, a head that is mine. Gray is beautiful.

I haven't yet had the urge to cover the gray, though some of my friends that do keep telling me, "oh, you just wait. You'll hate it too!" I'm like, what the hell- are you cursing me? So what and what if I don't? Right now I like it. I'm willing a nice fat white streak along the front that starts at the peak and it's working. I've begun to wonder if I lose my "redhead status" when it goes all gray. A friend assures me not- he says being a redhead is in the DNA and that, no one and nothing can take away from me. I love him.

See? Some people don't even notice it. 

The one thing I did start doing a few years ago was the black under layer- my childhood wish at last realized in part. I was nervous about it before hand, because there's actually an awful lot of hair under there that's black! But you can't tell. When it's down, the black just peeks out here and there, but I know it's there. And I quickly found out I LOVED it! It was a little like that first tattoo that I got in a place that stayed hidden, in case I didn't like it. I was so thrilled with it, that I was flashing my pubic bone at anyone who wanted to see. I wanted another tattoo, immediately. In a similar way, I loved the black so much that I immediately wanted more. It was fun and it's stayed fun. I can flash it more depending on how I wear my hair or keep it subtle when I'm in my Grandma's church. We win.

I just got the black redone finally after months of growing out. The person who did it for me offered to add another color if I wanted. Her hair is a lovely mottling of purple, blue, yellow, green and her natural medium brunette. "I've got a drawer full of colors left over..." Including a deep blue purple that I loved. SCORE!!! 

So for the first time I have an "unnatural" color added to my locks. It's subtle- really only shows up in the sun and it's not as deep as I'd hoped, but I love it! Purple is my favorite color and this rocks with the red and black. I'm not sure if I want more yet, but maybe. I feel possibilities opening up that I hadn't considered before! I want more white at the front-they can do that, right? And maybe time to play with some sculpting gel or something. Maybe even shave a layer and do some tattoo work on my skull while it's bare. Seriously! It'll grow back in if I let it. Like everything in life, it's temporary only more obviously so. It's one of it's great advantages, that and its malleability. There's so little in life that we can change that fast, that easily. Why not? It's just hair. 

47 and flying mah freak flag, high and proud! Don't let 'em get to you.

ps: Please feel free to express your opinion if you're compelled. Just don't expect me to care. 

Tell me about your hair adventures and show me some pics!