I'm Not Weighing Myself Anymore - Day 4 - On the Road

June 22, 2017

Every mile driven -

erased for now with bedtime

stories and snuggles.

Daily goals report: 

·         Weigh in – didn’t.  Really didn’t think about it until now.

·         Meditate – seven hours of driving/road meditation

·         Walk – Did my PT exercises for my knee, and seven hours driving.

·         Eat – Don’t ask – I was alone in a car for seven hours!

      Other goals report:

·         Told the story of “Sarann” a Cambodian Cinderella Story to Victor and Mica.  Their pleas of “one more” after the story ended, is music to any grandmother’s ears.

·         Dreamt of future art projects for a good part of seven hour drive.

·         Wrote the Haiku at the top of this page, not my best effort, but the road really does get in your head when you are traveling for seven hours straight.

·         Writing this now

·         Happy Birthday to Kris Kristofferson.  I imagined, back in the 1970s when he was in Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, that one day he might leave Rita Coolidge and take up with me.  In case that happened, I learned all the chords and lyrics in the Kris Kristofferson songbook I owned – also, some of Dylan’s songs from the aforementioned movie as well.  He left Rita, but things didn’t work out for us, mostly on account that we never met. Technically going to his concert doesn’t count as meeting – we never had a chance.  Happy 84^th Birthday Kris – you’re probably a bit too old for me anyway.

      Today I arrived in Moorhead to spend time with my daughter and her family.  It is so hard to be so far away from them every day.  The many miles from my home to here settled in my mind and body during seven hours of driving and road waiting in road construction.  It takes awhile to shake the miles out of my body and mind so I can be fully present here, not worrying about the drive back.

      I am grateful for reliable vehicles, good roads, podcasts, audio books, and my acceptance of solitude and solitary travel.  The rewards of hugs, declarations of grandma love, and long narratives about how we are to spend our time together makes the journey worth every mile.

      As I write this blog, four days in, I thought I might spend more time thinking about the whole weight/weigh-in thing.  Perhaps, like so many other things at this stage of my life, I may have really ROF about weight as well.  May it be so.

I'm Not Weighing Myself Anymore - Day 3 - Two Gypsies Quaint Goods and Reading Room

Gypsy Houses (Lori Allen 2017) -Painted at 2 Gypsies Quaint Goods and Reading Room 

June 21, 2017

A near perfect day:

Plattsmouth; painting; reminisce;

Jack Daniels; goodnight.

Daily goals report: 

·         Weigh in – didn’t  (was tempted, I love weighing on scales at other people’s homes)

·         Meditate – check

·         Walk – Did my PT exercises for my knee, that’s about all.

·         Eat – Little lunch from Herban Coffee Lab, crackers, cheese, and Jack for dinner

      Other goals report:

·         All the laughter today certainly must count as song

·         Painted a new watercolor (see above) at Cheryll’s store

·         Wrote the Haiku at the top of this page, right?

·         Writing this now

·         Happy Birthday to Benazir Bhutto.  She was only three years older than I, she was prime minister, first woman prime minister, of a Muslim country.  Sadly assassinated at age 54.  She lit a light, hopefully we can all do that.  Makes a day of painting feel insignificant.

      Not much else to say, except, life is good.  Well, as good as it can be in such uncertain and challenging times.  If happiness and meaning were dependent solely on what we can accomplish on our own, we’d still be living in caves.  Thank goodness for small groups of people who are parts of other small groups of people who are parts of other small groups of people . . . thank goodness those groups overlap in all the right places and times . . . like science, and sociality, and curiosity, and strategy; and dreaming; and holding tight through the difficult times. Thank goodness.  Just thank goodness.

I'm Not Weighing Myself Anymore - Day 2 - Summer Solstice

Happy Solstice

June 20, 2017

Plattsmouth is not quite

the quintessential road trip

…but Cheryll lives here.

      Daily goals report: 

·         Weigh in – didn’t

·         Meditate – check

·         Walk – not too much, but rocked my PT exercises for my knee at my PT appointment.  Amy, my PT, rocks.  She says I can walk more in a few weeks.

·         Eat – I’m visiting Cheryll.  We’re so bad. 

·         Wished high school classmate, Doreen P., happy b-day on Facebook - that counts.

      Other goals report:

·         Sang most of the way to Plattsmouth

·         Showed Cheryll my art

·         Wrote the Haiku at the top of this page, right?

·         Writing this now

      Cheryll is one of those people that becomes your closest friend once you become friends with her.  She is not afraid to show you her vulnerabilities, which match my own.  One of the things I love most about her is how she tells people the story of our first meeting. 

      She had heard of me in our professional circle.  It annoyed her when people would say, “you would just love Lori!”  When we met in Nashville, Tennessee, at a conference – she was unimpressed.  I was my usual bubbly and outgoing persona, too self-concerned with making a good impression to notice the reactions and feelings of those around me.  I took for granted that Cheryll appreciated meeting me and that we’d be colleagues. 

      Here is the part where she tells people that after meeting me, she could not stand me.  I seemed self-important and superficial.  Cheryll says she smiled politely and busied herself with other people and things.  I didn’t notice, she says.

      At the conference, later that day, Cheryll was attending a workshop presented by a musical duo called “Y’All.” They were telling their story of UU ministry and mission as a gay country/blue grass songwriters and performers.  I’m not sure why I chose that workshop, but I did.  The rooms was near packed with few seats left.  When I saw Cheryll, a stately woman with signature spiked gray hair recognizable from the back, I approached her row.  There was an open seat next to her.

      What she says about my approach varies from mine, but her version holds the truth.  I got her attention and pointed at the empty chair, then myself.  “Oh brother, not her,” she thought to herself.  But since, like me, she was a people pleaser, she put on a smile and nodded yes that the chair was open.  Her happy anticipation at hearing “Y’All” so up close and personal changed to creating a plot to get out of there as soon as she could.

      With satchels filled with books and brochures in tow, I scooched past seated people to my center spot next to Cheryll.  I gushed over the great seats and what I’d heard about “Y’All.”  I barely noticed her forced smile and few words of agreement.  I mean, who wouldn’t want to be my friend?

      Next she tells that the presentation, or concert, started.  Those men were hysterical.  Such sad, but genuine stories that they’d turned into beautiful harmony and joy.  Their songs made us laugh – perhaps more than they should have.  Both Cheryll and I appreciate some great self-deprecating humor when we hear it because we are authorities on self-deprecating humor.  As we laughed our generous bellies shook in unison.  Soon, we were bobbing toward, then bouncing off, each other.  We could not contain ourselves.

      Cheryll tells that during this laugh fest, she came to believe that I could not be a terrible self-important person if I could laugh authentically at gay, self-deprecating music and jokes.  She decided maybe we could be friends.  That concert of the now defunct “Y’All” led to years of road trips, sketchy experiences, gut busting laughs, tears for shared hurts, and a love that will always be with us across the miles.

      Today is Cheryll day.  I love her.  I love those who love her.  Ditto her for me.

Footnote*

So, this group we saw, "Y'All" was comprised of James Dean Jay Byrd (L) and 

Steven Cheslik-DeMeyer (R) - both pictures.

   Cheryll and I got to know them a bit better when she invited them to do a concert at the church she was working at in Omaha, NE.  The were debuting their new album.  

  The talked of the difficulties of breaking into the big times as a gay duo out of Nashville.  We heard, in 2002, that they'd quit doing music.

But now . . . . looks like Steven is doing well . . . .

I'm Not Weighing Myself Anymore

June 19, 2017

Today, I take up

equal space of thirty-two

sad, fat newborn mes.

      I imagine some of you will sigh and shake your heads, perhaps shed a tear, when you read my sixty-first birthday haiku.  Go ahead and make this about you instead of me.  I’m used to that.

      I know it’s late in my life game, but I am going to re-imagine what a different life could have been like –beloved beautiful newborn to grandmother crone.  I have made a plan for each day of my 61^st, technically 62^nd, year on the planet.  These things I’ll do every day:

·         Not weigh myself (Except at my doctor’s office – not sure I’ll ask them to tell me what it is)

·         Meditate

·         Walk

·         Eat . . . hmmm.  Not sure what more to say

·         Wish someone . . . living or dead . . .a happy birthday

These are the things I’ll do as often as I can, at least a few times each week.

·         Write a poem or haiku

·         Art – painting or fabric

·         Sing

·         Write

So, check, check, check  . . . for all those tasks above.  For writing, I went back and wrote a Haiku that reflects the events of my birthday six and more decades ago.

June 19,1956

Should have known better

than to be born on Round Barn

game day at Center.

    This is the message that has lived in my head since the first time I heard about the day I was born.  So many emotions, none of them mine – until later.

      Happy birthday to me, I mean you (I am still not sure how to refer to myself when telling my story) ... a fat baby girl whose true identity was unknown to herself for years. 

      Sweet little baby Lora.  You with your beauty and creativity belong wherever you are.  You’ll develop great strength and strategies as you navigate the path.  May each year bring you closer to loving yourself, closer to those you cherish, fully.

      Haters – move on - or open your mind and join me on my journey.

Upper Left - closest thing to a baby pic on my computer.

I am Hagar . . .

Hagar  1875

Edmonia Lewis 1844-1907
African - Native American
Artist / Sculptor / Poet

Tyehimba Jess - Poet / Teacher

Hagar in the Wilderness 

My God is the living God,

God of the impertinent exile.

An outcast who carve me

into an outcast carved

by sheer and stony will

to wander the desert

in search of deliverance

the way a mother hunts

for her wayward child.

God of each eye fixed to heaven,

God of the fallen water jug,

of all the hope a vessel holds

before spilling to barren sand.

God of flesh hewn from earth

and hammered beneath a will

immaculate with the power

to bear life from the lifeless

like a well in a wasteland.

I'm made in the image of a God

that knows flight but stays me

rock still to tell a story ancient as

slavery, old as the first time

hands clasped together for mercy

and parted to find only their own

salty blessing of sweat.

I have been touched by my God

in my creation, I've known her caress

of anointing callus across my face.

I know the lyric of her pulse

across the lips... and yes,

I've kissed the fingertips

of my dark and mortal God.

She has shown me the truth

behind each chiseled blow

that's carved me into this life,

the weight any woman might bear

to stretch her mouth toward her

one true God, her own

beaten, marble song.

                                                      ~ Tyehimba Jess 2013

Last week I binge-watched The Keepers on Netflix.  Spoiler alert - the underlying them is sexual abuse.  It is an excellent murder mystery, if a bit heavy when remembering it is a true story. It brings light to the stories of sexual abuse in, again, the Catholic religion.  I'll refrain from commenting on the story other than to say, I think it's important for adults to watch.

Watching this series brought back memories for me, myself a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. My abuser was not a priest or clergy person, but the rampant misogyny of my father's understanding of his Christian religion factored strongly into his narrative of the abuse. I have healed, but I am not immune to triggers when similar stories come my way.  This series was a trigger for me.

As a child I came to think that the story of Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar in the Bible's book of Genesis had something to do with what was happening to me.  In the past few years, the above poem, inspired by the marble carving of Hagar by Edmonia Lewis, has been transformative to me and my thinking about Hagar, in my thinking about my sexual abuse.

I love the idea that God is a mixed race women, hewn out of marble, each chisel strike defining a feature, an emotion, an understanding. I wish I would have known of this strong cool Hagar as a child. I may have seen myself as a strong survivor rather than an outcast, getting what I deserved for being a female. I have embraced this Hagar now. By some act of  secular grace,  I have found a proverbial cool water spring that assures my survival.

There are no words that can describe my cool water spring...I imagine if you have found a metaphorical spring that sustains you, you know that things such as this can only be described in the language of the soul, the feelings and actions that bring ecstatic connectedness with all that is sacred.

I hope that this poem and series will be the chisel blow for you that they have been for me - informing and transforming further the way I look  and the way I look at the world..  Neither poem nor documentary are reason for your tears, those belong to those who lived this, to Hagar. Instead, understand and embrace the message of this story - that absolute and solitary power and authority never serves anyone well - not children, not churches, not adults - not any one.

http://www.tubefilter.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/netflix-the-keepers.jpg
The Keepers

(I learned that an earlier draft of this post was accidently posted a few days ago. That page is no longer available.  Sorry for any confusion.)

  

Lassie in the Sky

Good Dog Lassie . . .

Bidden or not, she

comes to me.  I don't even
know my own peril.

When painting, I often take photos of my work in progress.  Viewing the piece as a photo allows me to see it in a way that first person observation does not permit.  Tonight, when cropping this picture to review, I was immediately drawn to the upper left corner, to the color patterns in the sky.  

There, in plain view, is my childhood dog, Lassie.  It's eerie because she appears in a painting of the the exact house I lived in as a child.  It's a farm house in southeastern South Dakota, Lake County. Lassie loved that farm and the duties required of a farm dog.  She loved herding cattle, following the tractor, fending off feral cats, chasing cars that dared to drive down our road, and all the other things farm dogs have to do.

Her life changed drastically when we moved from the farm to the city - well, to a brand tract house addition newly annexed to Sioux Falls - not quite a city.  It took her awhile to understand that her rural life was gone, that instead she'd be inside a house all day, waiting for her people to come home from school and work.  Some days she'd get to follow me or my sister or brother on our neighborhood explorations, some days she'd have to run hot laps in the back yard to expend her energy.

Lassie loved visits back to my grandparent's farm as much as us kids.  She'd leap out of the car, pay a respectful bark to my grandparents, then take off to check the outbuildings and any livestock that might be around.  At the end of our visit, she'd walk slowly, dutifully to our car, just like the rest of us. Leaving the farm never became any easier for any of us.

I'm not usually a seer or seeker of omens, good or bad. This unexpected appearance of my faithful and unconditional friend, however, comes at a time when I need it most.  I am choosing to see this as a fortunate sign. Good dog, Lassie, good girl.

"Lassie in the Sky" - © Lori Allen 2017

Feminist Poets

Recently I have been preparing for an upcoming Sunday Service at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Ames.  I said I would speak on leaving my work as their religious educator and finding my calling in the work I do now, advocacy for victims of sexual assault and abuse.  I was sure that some edgy poem would exemplify and explain all that.  Not so, unless there is some poem I have not yet found.  I am in awe of the clarity and articulation of Feminist Poets.  I know I probably share some of their experiences, but it feels vain to make such a comparison.  A safer route, it seems to me, is to go with the words of the mystics.  Here is a poem I wrote about my experience in searching the poetry of women with powerful, stern voices.

Feminist Poets

I search my personal library’s

tomes, then the internet,

for the works of Feminist Poets

that speak my truth.

I want to find words that explain

to you who do not understand –

just how powerful I am and

how real my struggle has been.

I spend hours surfing, reading,

folding the corners, bookmarking sites.

I’ll come back to these if I can’t find

anything  better.  I’ve been at this all night.

Every minute or so, my head nods, jerks back awake - 

until finally I allow a brief dream-filled sleep.

I dream of a beach late at night where I

observe a secret gathering I will never be invited to join.

Walker, Atwood, Piercy, Plath, and Angelou.

There they are, sitting around a fire with their drinks,

laughing hysterically at the small, nervous

woman just outside their formation.

“Hang on,” sniffles a frustrated Oliver.  She

licks her thumb to get better traction on her pages

and pages of notes.  She is searching for

the words she’s written to impress this powerful circle.

“I write about Nature and Spirit,

Soul and Struggle, Creation, Geese –

metaphors for everything you all write about.”

The laughter stops with her comparisons. 

Guffaws become cynical smirks. Angelou’s eyes

fix on Oliver, “You let them off the hook. . . .” 
Oliver cannot argue with that.

She drops her notes and walks away.

I wake with a start, aware that I do not deserve

to compare my life to the struggles of Feminist Poets.

I get up to open a window in my room, sit back down to

open my laptop.  I google Rumi, Hafiz, Oliver.

                                                ~ Lori Allen ©2017