Responding to Resistance

Resistance. It may have been futile against The Borg (okay- geeky Star Trek reference) but it certainly can cause havoc with the creative process. I am working on a new book, The Choice, and some days the writing is like being in labour. It's a good metaphor to use when dealing with resistance of any kind (where a deep soul-serving aspect of self wants to proceed and the smaller self is being dragged kicking, screaming and sabotaging wherever she can.)

What does someone giving birth need? (And I draw here on the experience of two home births- one to a 12lb, 10 oz baby.) Support- firm gentle support; constant reminders to stay in the moment, to breathe through this contraction, not to get caught in anticipating the future.  A voice that says with the authority of experience, "You can do this, stay here, just this breath, this contraction. . . . this line, this sentence, this story. . . ."

Can't help but think how, with my first son in particular, I wanted to say mid-labour, "I've changed my mind. I want to adopt!" But I can no more say "I quit" to this book than I could to having those babies mid-labour. Ironically, (given the book's title) when we've really chosen life fully, we can't just back out of that choice when it requires us to do something difficult, without doing real damage to ourselves.

When I think of stopping, or trying to back up out of writing the truth that’s hard to live with and acknowledge, of deciding I want to give it all up to become a lawyer or a cat groomer I have an image of the spikes they put at some parking garage exits. They puncture your tires if you try to back up. You can only drive forward.

So resistance really is futile. But it can cause anguish. We have to touch it gently like a screaming baby, make comforting noises, whisper, "Shhhhh. . . you're okay. . . just breathe. . . . .just keep writing. . . . all will be well . . . .”

So, I keep on writing- through moments of exquisite ecstasy (usually when the first draft of a story is complete and sometimes when the words come in a steady effortless stream) and moments of excruciating resistance (most often when I am trying to get started on a story I know is going to take me down into the depths.) 

It’s all just what is- the resistance, the agony, the ecstasy and the learning- all just life passing through us, holding us, tossing us about like a small boat in weather that is constantly changing.

Birthing, driving out of the parking garage, tending a screaming child, sailing through varied weather: pick the metaphor that helps you keep moving ahead where there is resistance. Me, I like my metaphors mixed.

Oriah (c) 2012

Freeing The Inner Hostage

When did I get to be so timid, so cautious, so afraid to stand up and say something raw and real, something that might make others uncomfortable?  

With awareness comes choice. I am overwhelmingly grateful for the book sales that allow me to write. But I've recently discovered that I've been holding myself hostage to this unexpected boon. Because the truth is, with the book sales and the “fame” (albeit a one on the one-to-ten scale of this kind of ephemeral “known-ness” that brings both blessings and strangeness) I’ve become. . .  cautious. 

When something you offer goes beyond the local circle that knows you personally, it invites projection because. . . . well, because that’s what we human beings do: we project the best and the worst of ourselves- onto others. It’s such a consistent thing in the human family that I have to assume it’s a feature, not a bug. It lets us see qualities that we are not ready to own (or aren’t even aware of) in ourselves, helps us see our reaction to and work out our relationship to these qualities.

We've all experienced the difficulties with  projections- the confusion and hurt of realizing that the other has not seen us for who we are or doesn’t like what they see when our humanness emerges; the anguish when our projection onto another drops and we see the human being before us and are less than thrilled with what we see (and with whom we may have intertwined some aspect of our life.) 

My default survival strategy as a child was to take responsibility. For everyone. And everything. All the time. Yes, as crazy as it sounds (and is) I decided (although that sounds far more conscious than I could have been) that the only response to my existence being an on-going disappointment to my mother, was to work hard with every breath to make everything alright for everyone. Impossible, but it kept me moving, trying, working, striving for more than a few decades. Until my body collapsed. And then, with a lot of help, I learned (and am still learning) about self-love and care, about the limits to my ability to respond, about what is and is not mine to “fix” or “save," about how we co-create what is -together.

It’s an on-going healing, and one I have come to appreciate for the consciousness it requires and cultivates. But the old default strategy is wired into my limbic brain. Most of the time I can see it, catch it, sit with it. But one of the things that sometimes triggers unconscious terror in me is feeling or anticipating others' disappointment.

And nothing breeds disappointment like projection.

So, the reason I get all antsy and ambivalent about doing public speaking or teaching (aside from my soul-deep need to spend my time writing) is 1) I know (and hope) some folks will come because they have read my books; 2) not knowing me personally they will project all kinds of wonderful qualities they have onto me; and 3) as they see me and get to know me they will be disappointed. It's inevitable, although probably not as consistent or ubiquitous as I imagine in my worst moments. And as much as I dread seeing or feeling others' disappointment, what really scares me is what I have done and might unconsciously do again to avoid it-  censoring myself, hedging on the truth as I know it, or taking on impossible responsibilities that are simply not mine. 

Oh, it's not all about self-preservation. When I have an opportunity to offer something I want to ensure that (to the best of my ability) I do no harm, that I offer something that encourages us to be compassionate and kind. But compassion and kindness has to include room for our human frailty and  shadow- those qualities we might want to deny even in our own minds.

Because I am every bit as human- as contradictory and inconsistent and messy in my thoughts, feelings and actions- as anyone else. Sometimes, at the end of a long day in the midst of a week of conscientious self-care, I eat six popsicles. Yep, six! Don’t ask me why. Some days, within minutes, I swing from feeling genuine compassion for people who are clearly having a hard day, to wanting to verbally lop off a few heads for bad behaviour. Some days I wish the best for my ex, and some days I hope he is tortured by living in the house I bought and furnished with things I'd either carefully purchased after saving for years, or inherited from my grandmother. 

I try not to feed or act on the popsicle-craving, head-lopping, vengeful aspects of self. And some days I succeed. But that doesn’t mean those aspects aren’t there and won't at times, be all too apparent. That's just what it is to be a human being. And when (not if, but when) my humanness disappoints another, well. . . that's also just what is. Another’s disappointment may feel momentarily life-threatening, but that’s an echo of an old reality that has passed. 

And even this- this failure to consistently maintain (or pretend to maintain) the awareness that others’ reactions are theirs and are not about me- well it’s yet another part of the messy magnificence of me.

So, look out. There's no telling what might come out of me now that I am no longer being held hostage to the unconscious desire to avoid disappointing people- both those I know and those I don't. 

Oriah (c) 2012

Girls' (Imaginations) Gone Wild

Is there anything better than having an out-of-control belly laugh with a friend, laughing so hard that tears pour down your face and you’re gasping for breath?  I hesitate to tell this story as there is a detail that might shock some- but I can’t resist the urge to share the laughter.

Last week I was on the phone with my dear friend, Linda, who lives in British Columbia. As usual our conversation launched heart-first into catching up with each others’ lives and discussing the meaning of life in both the big picture and in the small choices we make daily.

All of a sudden, I heard a strange noise. “Wait just a minute,” I said to Linda. “There’s a very odd noise coming from my bedroom.” As I walked into the bedroom the noise got louder- sort of a buzzing, mechanical noise like a drill or some other kind of power tool.

The apartment building I live in is concrete with hot water heating, so airborne noises (like voices or music) do not travel between units. However, if someone drops a penny on the hardwood floor above me, I hear it loud and clear. I figured someone next door was drilling into the concrete wall, except. . . . except the sound seemed to be in my bedroom.

“What is that?” Clearly Linda could hear it too.

I moved slowly toward the area from which the sound seemed to be emanating, right next to my bed. I’d recently made the seven by nine foot room feel larger by getting rid of the two dressers, and replacing the bedside table with a low wooden cabinet with one file drawer below a smaller shallow drawer.

“I don’t know.” I could hear the trepidation in my own voice. “It sounds like it’s coming from this room.” I crept up on the cabinet. The sound got louder. I held out my hand and touched the innocuous looking piece of furniture. “Ooo!” I pulled my hand back as if I’d touched a hot burner. “It’s coming from inside the filing cabinet!” 

“Don’t hang up the phone!” Linda shouted, responding to the fear in my voice. “What do you want me to do?”

Do? What could she do? She was three thousand miles away! Call Toronto 911 if the phone suddenly went dead?

“Do you think it’s the mouse?” Linda asked. I’ve been having an on-again-off-again relationship/argument with a small brown mouse who is trying to make my home his.

“What, the mouse went out and bought a power tool to try to intimidate me into letting him stay?”

“Well, what is it then?”

“I don’t know. . . .” My voice involuntarily slid up a half an octave. “. . . but it’s definitely coming from the filing cabinet.” I moved my hand slowly toward the top of the low cabinet, and laughed nervously. “It’s like the filing cabinet is . . . . possessed . . . I can’t even think of what it could be. It’s filled with . . . . files!”  I took a breath. “Okay, I’m going to open the top drawer.”

I jerked the drawer open, jumping back. I don’t know what I expected. A drill-wielding mouse? Some kind of angry file-drawer-ghost? 

And then I collapsed onto the floor laughing. “Oh no!”

“What it is?”

I was laughing so hard I could hardly speak. “It’s . . . . the vibrator. . . . that’s in the top drawer. Somehow it turned itself on!”

(That’s right folks- deal with it: Oriah Mountain Dreamer has a vibrator in her bedside table. And clearly it’s something she uses so infrequently she can’t remember it’s there so the batteries are bursting with unused energy!)

Linda was laughing now too. “Oh, that’s too funny.”

“Good grief. I was actually scared of the filing cabinet!” I sputtered back.

And we just kept laughing, our giggles egging each other on. My sides ached, tears streamed, and I had to gulp for air. 

“Attack of the pent up vibrator!”

“Ghost of vibrators past!”

Is there anything more able to dissolve tension held in the body than belly laughter, more able to make you feel like you are nine years old again than laughing over something completely silly with a dear friend? After awhile we wiped our eyes and calmed down- but what a treat shared silliness is, what a blessing and a release to laugh about our own active imaginations and something so harmless and fun. 

That’s what I wish for you- for us- for the world this week: belly laughter that shakes out all the stored tension, that reminds us of how silly our fears sometimes are, that lets us feel that the gift of being human is about more than meaningful co-creations, as wonderful and necessary as those are, but also includes our capacity to laugh together.

Oriah (c) 2012

Looking Back to Move Forward

Ever find yourself wondering, “What was I thinking?!” (Usually muttered when we're living with unanticipated but now, in hindsight, painfully foreseeable consequences of choices we've made.) The plus and minus of being a writer, is that I can find out what I was thinking- because I wrote it down!

Creative work incubates within us long before it manifests in sounds or colours or shapes or stories. So, when I start to write a book, I go back and sift through the journals I’ve filled since the last book was written. I look for the luminous ends of threads and follow them down into the story that wants to be told. I dive into the recorded thoughts, feelings, choices, fears, joys and dreams in one small life, partly because it's the information on our inner lives to which I have the most direct access (augmented by the truth-telling journals- memory is often not reliable.)  

Since any tale of my life in the last few years will include some reflection on the ending of my marriage (two years ago now,) I thought it would be wise (if not exactly fun) to go back and start reading about my experience as my ex-husband and I got together in 2000. It has been. . . .  humbling. I am reading about the daily struggles of a woman (me- although there are moments when I would like to disavow ownership) earnestly and repeatedly talking herself out of the serious qualms she has about the relationship that is unfolding, and talking herself into a commitment that some part of her clearly knows is unwise. And this after years of deep psychological and spiritual inner work, a consistent daily practice, and supportive community!

Here’s the thing: we cannot be more conscious than we are. Knowing now what I did not know then, I can see how unconscious fears, stories, wounds and beliefs were shaping my choices. I'm not judging myself for this- it's simply what was.

But I’m looking for something else that I know is there, something I can feel in the shape and colour of the comments and stories, in the scent of the details of one small life: the arc of the healing my soul was seeking, orchestrating, creating. I have tremendous faith in the sacred Mystery that creates us and in what we are. Although, at times, we all self-sabotage, go unconscious, and make unwise choices, soul/psyche is always aiming for awareness of our essential wholeness, always using whatever is available to find the healing that will support us in making the choice to live fully and deeply.

So, with gentle curiosity (and a little trepidation) the soul-sleuthing begins. I continue to read and write, seeing the arc of my own soul/psyche exposing the primal wound I had never faced,  bringing about the healing I have always ached for, opening me to the ever-deepening spiral of loving myself, life and the world. 

It’s not always an easy story, but that’s okay. It’s still being told, is unfolding with increasing ease and joy, and I have every confidence that it ends well. 

Oriah (c) 2012

Finding The Truth That Takes Us Home

How do you make yourself available to the truth, even when it's hard?

Whether I am journaling or working on a book, or just posting a brief comment on Facebook, the act of writing brings me to the truth of the moment. Oh, I’m not claiming to be accessing “Absolute Truth” when I write, and it’s not that I drag readers through every detail of my daily life. But, as much as I sometimes try to wiggle away from the truth of the moment, (watching movies, or working too much to avoid some feeling or situation I am not enjoying) I can’t do it when I write.

It’s Facebook that has really brought this home to me. I post daily and my purpose is to offer us all a little daily encouragement because. . . . well, because sometimes  life is challenging and we can all use a little encouragement. But, even if I want to write something I hope will inspire gratitude or inner peace, something I’d like to reinforce our natural courage and compassion, if I am not connected to gratitude or peace, courage or compassion, I can’t write about it. It feels. . . . false. Even if I plan to use a quote from one of my books, I can’t post it if it feels miles away from what I am experiencing in the moment.

Now, this having to write from the truth of the moment, is not always convenient. Sometimes my moments- like everyone’s- suck.  But here’s the great thing about this: because I am committed to posting each day on Facebook, to writing a weekly blog,  a new book, first thing in the morning as part of my daily practise, and because I find it pretty much impossible to lie to myself on the page, when I encounter a  moment that is filled with pain or grief or some other less-than-fun condition- I can write my way into being able to be with it in a truthful way.

However we do it, being truthful with ourselves about this moment, deepens our intimacy with ourselves, each other and life. And, as the Grandmothers of the dreamtime told me years ago- “Intimacy heals.”  

Your way of being aware of and with the truth of the moment may not include writing- may happen most deeply when you meditate, or go for a walk, or go fishing. You may find yourself most present with what is when you wash dishes slowly, or draw, when you listen to or make music, or pray, or dance, or do yoga, or play with the dog.  . . . There are infinite ways to make space for the deep truth of our lives to find us, and we don’t have to do it the same way all the time, although it’s good to find a way that works even when the truth we have to face and be with is hard, even when some part of us would rather not be with what is.

Sometimes, when I feel my own resistance to being with the truth I start writing with the phrase, “I don’t want to write about . . . . “ At other times, when I notice that I am doing everything BUT taking myself to writing, (because the utensil drawer in the kitchen is suddenly screaming to be reorganized or the urge to clean the oven  is irresistible) I ask myself on the page, “What are you trying to outrun?” and see what comes.

The commitment to living a human life fully involves being with the truth of our experience in the moment. That’s where home is. Our practice- however formal or informal- is our way of going home over and over again.

 Oriah (c) 2012

My Favourite Four Letter Word

Monday was Labour Day here in Canada. This, combined with a week of energetically re-arranging and cleaning my apartment and a recent retreat filled with intense studying and writing, got me thinking about work- about how much I love to work, how meaningful work (along with intimate relationships) is important to a sense of well-being, how work is often vilified, depicted as something we would eradicate from our lives if we had the resources to hire others to do it.

One of the great gifts of having had a chronic illness for many years, is that I truly appreciate the times when I am able to work. I am aware of the satisfaction I feel from being able to move furniture, the “good tired” I get from using feeling/intuitive/mental abilities to write or work with a client. Doing work that makes us stretch just a smidge beyond what comes without any effort at all, can feel invigorating.

I am thinking here of work in the broadest possible way- as focused effort expended in a particular direction. Could be paid or unpaid, inner or outer, something we love doing or something we do only because it has to be done or for some other end (like putting food on the table.) Could be creatively open-ended or. . . . not so much. There are only so many ways to wash the dishes, but even there we have choices about the quality of the attention we bring to the task, whether or not we really feel the warm, soapy water (and offer a small prayer of gratitued for hot running water,) whether or not we see the task as drudgery or an act of caring for ourselves or others.  

One of the most challenging things about aging is the diminishment of our ability to work as we once could. Still, if we don’t get caught in identifying with the quantity of accomplished work, but allow ourselves to enjoy the feeling of working at whatever level makes us stretch just a little (without hurtling ourselves over the cliff of “but I used to be able to . . .” ) the pleasure in work can still be ours.

Of course, the conditions of our work can make it easier or harder to find joy in the activity. If we are compelled by circumstances to work long hours, to do work that separates us from those we love for long periods, or to work in conditions that are unsustainable for our minds, bodies, hearts or spirits, finding joy in work can become difficult or impossible

Years ago, when I was encouraging a friend to seek the assistance of a skilled guide in order to deepen her understanding of and healing around a terribly abusive childhood, she responded with a plaintive wail, “But it’s so much work!”

"Well yes," I replied, “but work is not suffering. It’s just work.”

Now, this may make me the poster child for the protestant work ethic I was steeped in as a child, but it’s true: work doesn’t need to be suffering. Work can be just work, focused effort in a particular direction. Our beliefs about work can make it suffering. Even when work is challenging, how we do it can create a little ease and, sometimes, real joy. If we are willing to bring curiosity and mindfulness to our experience while actively creating meaning for ourselves from the tasks at hand, even the most mundane or challenging work can deepen our awareness and enrich our lives.

Which is why work is my favourite four letter word. 

(c) Oriah 2012