Abigail Carter's Blog, page 11

My Knee Has Come To Say

[image error]I knew the popping sound the moment I heard and felt it and it gave me that sick feeling I aways used to get before surgery took care of it. But this was the other knee. A new era of instability was at hand and I was on the top of a mountain.

Perhaps I should have heeded the warning signs. Why did I glance at the Ski Patrol booth, eyeing that big white on red cross so warily? And the sign at the bottom of the chair lift, ominous with its two black diamonds.

The day so far had been filled with giggles and bombing down hills until I looked up and suggested we try a new run. Despite this, he feels responsible, or jinxed that his skiing companions always seem to get injured. I tell him he's crazy. Skiing is hazardous. It pains me to see the furrows in his brow.

I am bundled up like a sausage and dragged bumpily down the entire mountain trying to remember to breathe despite the pain of each bump and the face-fulls of snow. And now I am cold and shivering. The ride I had always imagined as smooth and warm was anything but. I turned to see him following me, filming, asking me to wave and I started to giggle. A little too hysterically.

He drove us home, my legs splayed out in front of me in the back seat, knee encased in a cardboard splint stuffed with tissue and held in place with packing tape – a human Fedex package. We bumped down more potted mountain.

I won't be teaching my class this week. I won't be talking about the vulnerability you need to overcome shame, but the irony is not lost on me. To be this vulnerable requires you to reach deep down, have courage, to trust. I watch him drive wondering what he is thinking. We are still so new to each other. Still asking questions, testing the water, timidly, yet purposefully.

He has read my book and has an advantage. But this is a different kind of vulnerability than the exposure of myself in words. I am immobile and must lean on surfaces and crutches and him for support. And he is untested and yet trusted. But it still feels risky and takes courage. And I have no choice.

That night I realize that this is a pattern. My knee injuries always occur in the presence of someone I care about, but who is new in my life. Perhaps there is some subconscious weakening or slackening that happens within me. Something lets go. And so my knee does too.

On the phone, talking with a healer that I am having to reschedule from the ER, she tells me that knees represent ego, unbending and stubborn and so I think that is what I must be letting go of.

You can have no ego when lying prone at the top of a mountain or on a couch piled with cushions. And any relationship worth pursuing requires letting go, being flexible, being vulnerable.

At least that's what my knees tell me.

 

You Have to Ask the Question to Get The Answer

I'm taking a very short hiatus from The Artist's Way posts for the moment because there is some other stuff I wanted to write about. And in the world of blogging when you find something you want to blog about, you go with it.

This past Sunday, I spoke at Hestia, a day-long women's retreat on Vashon Island. Just so you're clear and if you haven't already figured out through my blog already, Vashon is a vortex of powerful psychic energy that attracts psychics and artists and healers by the bucketful. I can't think of a better place to have a women's retreat. All that gooey divine womanhood stuff.

The event was to raise money for a fledgling non-profit whose goal it is to build an actual, physical women's-only retreat on Vashon Island. A lofty dream and I have to admire the passion and tenacity of the women who are making it happen.

As I waited my turn to speak, I listened to some of the other speakers and I was particularly intrigued by one, partly because our names were so similar. Her name was Aimée Cartier. Although I didn't have a chance to meet her, I felt a kinship. And then I was inspired by her talk. She described herself as an "intuitive" and speaks, does psychic readings and provides tools for "inspired living" through her website www.spreadingblessings.com.

Her talk was about ways to use your intuition and she has broken down her method into incredibly simple steps. We have all heard that notion that if there is something we are desiring, we need to put our intentions out into the "Universe" (you are welcome to replace the word "Universe" with whatever word you use to invoke the divine). So in your head, you might say something like: "I would like…" or "I desire…" which is all well and fine, but Aimée implores us to go a step further to clarify our intentions by turning them into clear questions. To use her example: "How can I get a job I love with health benefits?" (Indeed this may be a perplexing question to all you Canadians out there). By being clear and stating our intentions in question form, we are more likely to get and understand the "responses" we receive. It may be in the form of a book that finds its way into our hands and someone who helps us, or a talk or performance that we see.

Of course the trick is being attuned to these tidbits of guidance and being willing to accept the path that our answers may take us in. That takes courage.

Of course, I've way over-simplified. I'm still in the process of reading Aimée's book, Getting Answers: Using Your Intuition to Discover Your Best Life and am so far impressed with the simplicity with which she lays out her thoughts on using intuition. A great guide for anyone who feels stuck and is interested in "living a more 'Awakened' life."

 

Failing the Artist’s Way – Week 2

[image error]

courtesy of www.aaronschachter.com

I’ve decided writing morning papers is making me depressed. I wonder if that happens to other people undertaking this endeavor. I now remember why I don’t journal. I’m a whiny crank. I’ve been pouring out my 4am worries and they sound like a broken record. You need to… findajob refithehouse betougheronthekids notspendsomuchmoney findaboyfriend notfindaboyfriend call notstressabouttheterriblefeedbackIgotaboutteachingmywritingclass stopbeinglazy… For. Three. Pages. Dear god. When I’m finished I feel terrible. One morning I tried turning it around and writing about the things I was grateful for and somehow ended in a tirade about the flakiness of men. Is this what I’m really thinking?

Meanwhile, last Friday I went to a yoga class, met with my new/old Artist’s Way friends followed by our writing meet up. I felt a little better that the other people in the group were having trouble getting up early enough to write the morning papers. Some needed coffee first and wrote them during breakfast. That seemed more do-able, though then I would have to give up my morning addiction of reading the newspaper (yeah, I’m one of the few hold-outs who still have black wrists every morning). But nobody mentioned feeling depressed. One person was exuberant about all the things they were discovering about themselves and laughingly called it psycho-terapy. For me, its just psycho-inducing.

OK, so in the group we worked on some of the Tasks. Come up with 5 people in your past who have blocked your creativity and 5 who have nurtured it. Write a story about it being blocked and write a letter to someone who championed you. I nearly cried writing my letter to my fifth grade teacher, Miss Barton. How she made me feel smart, the fun I had when my friend Donna and I were invited over to her house for a slumber party. Did I question that one of the other female teachers was there too? Only years later did I realize that they were a couple. I wanted to send Miss Barton my letter. I wondered if she was even still alive. She must be in her 70s by now. I FaceBooked my old school and someone wrote on the wall, remembering all those female teachers and the whole lesbian vibe that was happening at that school at the time. I never knew, or cared. The sentiments were all sweet, because we adored them.

So the tasks went better. I felt a little bit gratified, having my little trip down memory lane. I then remembered my third grade teacher who championed me as a poet when I was eight. She saw me as a writer thirty years before I did.

It reminds me of those times, as a teenager, when my mom used to ask me what book I was reading because she could always tell by my mood if I was reading a depressing one. I took it on. All of the emotion, or the fear, or the anger in that book transferred directly into my brain. I learned to be careful about the books I read.

Now I’m wondering if I should shelve the morning papers like I did those depressing books? Or maybe instead of making them journal-like I should write stories or letters.

The other thing I did on Friday was sit with my friend Deirdre, a formidable story doctor and we went over my story and figured out an ending. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel now and hope to get a first draft done in the next couple of months.

So maybe the creative juices are flowing again. I just wish I knew how to deal with the unexpected side-effects of my Artist’s Way. Is anyone else experiencing side-effects?

 

Failing the Artist's Way – Week 2

[image error]

courtesy of www.aaronschachter.com

I've decided writing morning papers is making me depressed. I wonder if that happens to other people undertaking this endeavor. I now remember why I don't journal. I'm a whiny crank. I've been pouring out my 4am worries and they sound like a broken record. You need to… findajob refithehouse betougheronthekids notspendsomuchmoney findaboyfriend notfindaboyfriend call notstressabouttheterriblefeedbackIgotaboutteachingmywritingclass stopbeinglazy… For. Three. Pages. Dear god. When I'm finished I feel terrible. One morning I tried turning it around and writing about the things I was grateful for and somehow ended in a tirade about the flakiness of men. Is this what I'm really thinking?

Meanwhile, last Friday I went to a yoga class, met with my new/old Artist's Way friends followed by our writing meet up. I felt a little better that the other people in the group were having trouble getting up early enough to write the morning papers. Some needed coffee first and wrote them during breakfast. That seemed more do-able, though then I would have to give up my morning addiction of reading the newspaper (yeah, I'm one of the few hold-outs who still have black wrists every morning). But nobody mentioned feeling depressed. One person was exuberant about all the things they were discovering about themselves and laughingly called it psycho-terapy. For me, its just psycho-inducing.

OK, so in the group we worked on some of the Tasks. Come up with 5 people in your past who have blocked your creativity and 5 who have nurtured it. Write a story about it being blocked and write a letter to someone who championed you. I nearly cried writing my letter to my fifth grade teacher, Miss Barton. How she made me feel smart, the fun I had when my friend Donna and I were invited over to her house for a slumber party. Did I question that one of the other female teachers was there too? Only years later did I realize that they were a couple. I wanted to send Miss Barton my letter. I wondered if she was even still alive. She must be in her 70s by now. I FaceBooked my old school and someone wrote on the wall, remembering all those female teachers and the whole lesbian vibe that was happening at that school at the time. I never knew, or cared. The sentiments were all sweet, because we adored them.

So the tasks went better. I felt a little bit gratified, having my little trip down memory lane. I then remembered my third grade teacher who championed me as a poet when I was eight. She saw me as a writer thirty years before I did.

It reminds me of those times, as a teenager, when my mom used to ask me what book I was reading because she could always tell by my mood if I was reading a depressing one. I took it on. All of the emotion, or the fear, or the anger in that book transferred directly into my brain. I learned to be careful about the books I read.

Now I'm wondering if I should shelve the morning papers like I did those depressing books? Or maybe instead of making them journal-like I should write stories or letters.

The other thing I did on Friday was sit with my friend Deirdre, a formidable story doctor and we went over my story and figured out an ending. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel now and hope to get a first draft done in the next couple of months.

So maybe the creative juices are flowing again. I just wish I knew how to deal with the unexpected side-effects of my Artist's Way. Is anyone else experiencing side-effects?

 

Failing The Artist’s Way – Week 1

[image error]My writing group is doing The Artist’s Way for the next 12 weeks and so far I am failing. The first order of business is to write “morning papers” which was no problem last week when the kids were off of school. This week, now that we have to get up at the crack of dawn, I am in no state to see, let alone write at 5:30am. Writing later in the morning seems to defeat the purpose which is to unload all those dumb things that bounce around your brain at night – the emails you still have to return, the checks you forgot to write, the things you need at the grocery store, what someone really meant by what they said at a party three weeks before… You get all this off your chest and that leaves you free to let come those creative juices.

OK, so fail. I need to find another time besides in bed to write my morning papers. Do they still work if I write them at 2:30 in the afternoon?

Next, I am meant to have an “Artist’s Date,” whereby I go out and get inspired. Art gallery, cool bookstore, museum. I was inspired at the shoe-repair shop yesterday. All those poor wads of leather crammed around the shop looking forlorn. It’s possible that I mistook the intoxicating smell of glue for inspiration. I do go to a coffee shop every Friday morning and sit with a die-hard group of writers and write. There, I am usually inspired. OK, so one point there. But wait, these excursions are meant to be done solo. Shoot. OK, scratch that. So really, its about claiming time for oneself. To find adventures. I do take myself to a movie from time to time. I walk the dog. I am thinking of doing another writing retreat. Surely these things count. I’m going to go ahead and give myself a half a point.

These things are simply the basic tools. Now comes Week 1. I am meant to record my negative “blurts” from my morning papers and convert them into positive affirmations. Uh. Well, OK. Gotta get that morning paper thing down. I need to “time travel” and write down the things that have blocked my creativity, and the things/people who have nurtured it. And then I am meant to take a twenty minute walk.

Oh, good. I need to walk the dog.

And so here’s what I find myself asking myself:

Is it possible that I am already living “The Artist’s Way”? Maybe, I tell myself. But maybe there is something to be said for following along, finding a way of getting those morning papers written, going on dates with myself.

OK, so I am declaring my intention to make a commitment to The Artist’s Way here and now. Each week, for the next 12 weeks, I will write a post about my experiences.

Would anyone care to join along? Tell us your experiences in the comments.

Ready, set, go!

Failing The Artist's Way – Week 1

[image error]My writing group is doing The Artist's Way for the next 12 weeks and so far I am failing. The first order of business is to write "morning papers" which was no problem last week when the kids were off of school. This week, now that we have to get up at the crack of dawn, I am in no state to see, let alone write at 5:30am. Writing later in the morning seems to defeat the purpose which is to unload all those dumb things that bounce around your brain at night – the emails you still have to return, the checks you forgot to write, the things you need at the grocery store, what someone really meant by what they said at a party three weeks before… You get all this off your chest and that leaves you free to let come those creative juices.

OK, so fail. I need to find another time besides in bed to write my morning papers. Do they still work if I write them at 2:30 in the afternoon?

Next, I am meant to have an "Artist's Date," whereby I go out and get inspired. Art gallery, cool bookstore, museum. I was inspired at the shoe-repair shop yesterday. All those poor wads of leather crammed around the shop looking forlorn. It's possible that I mistook the intoxicating smell of glue for inspiration. I do go to a coffee shop every Friday morning and sit with a die-hard group of writers and write. There, I am usually inspired. OK, so one point there. But wait, these excursions are meant to be done solo. Shoot. OK, scratch that. So really, its about claiming time for oneself. To find adventures. I do take myself to a movie from time to time. I walk the dog. I am thinking of doing another writing retreat. Surely these things count. I'm going to go ahead and give myself a half a point.

These things are simply the basic tools. Now comes Week 1. I am meant to record my negative "blurts" from my morning papers and convert them into positive affirmations. Uh. Well, OK. Gotta get that morning paper thing down. I need to "time travel" and write down the things that have blocked my creativity, and the things/people who have nurtured it. And then I am meant to take a twenty minute walk.

Oh, good. I need to walk the dog.

And so here's what I find myself asking myself:

Is it possible that I am already living "The Artist's Way"? Maybe, I tell myself. But maybe there is something to be said for following along, finding a way of getting those morning papers written, going on dates with myself.

OK, so I am declaring my intention to make a commitment to The Artist's Way here and now. Each week, for the next 12 weeks, I will write a post about my experiences.

Would anyone care to join along? Tell us your experiences in the comments.

Ready, set, go!

Cremation Jewelry? Did I Miss Something?

[image error]I got an email today from urns.com. No really. They would like me to add them to my blogroll and I truly don't know how I feel about that. Do they know that most 9/11 widows never had need of an urn? Honestly, I have no experience in the world of urn-dom, since I had nothing to put in one, but I'm weirdly fascinated by this site. A tear drop necklace that allows you to carry your loved one at all times around your neck? There's actually an entire category called "Cremation Jewelry" that I can only assume was inspired by Angelina. Biodegradable urns in the shape of sea-shells? Urns that double as clocks. I'm not sure if these are meant to be put on your mantel so that you can always rely on your dead loved one for the time, or if its meant to be buried. I'm hard pressed to figure out why anyone would need to know the time at that point.

I realize I've missed out on an entire subculture of death. How would I have made the decision between solid brass, marble or alloy? Isn't alloy what you pay extra for when buying a car? I imagine many of you have had to make these decisions. If not at urns.com than at coffins.com. How surreal an experience that must be.

On that note, I've had a number of conversations with widows and widowers who years later still have their loved one's ashes sitting on the mantle. "I know it's weird," they say. Or, "I just haven't found the right time," or "it's complicated because of family." I've also heard some lovely stories of beach-based or mountain top ceremonies with entire families taking part. I was moved by the scene in "The Descendants" when the father (George Clooney) and his kids head out in a canoe to sprinkle the mom's ashes on the water.

I've tried to write a scene in my book about a sprinkling of ashes ceremony. I hope I've managed to capture something I have little experience with.

What has been your experience? Did you buy your loved one's urn online?

All mirth aside, urns.com does have a useful blog which I will add to my blogroll.

 

 

My Valentine’s Day Mash-up

[image error]I seem compelled to offer a sort of Valentine’s compilation of interesting things I have found on the subject of love, dating and relationships:

 

 

Netted had an interesting compilation of dating sites today. To think I could look for dates among only Mac using men?
The Oatmeal’s Worst Thing About Valentine’s Day…
And gotta have a Crappy Pictures take on Valentine’s Day.
Improv for Preschoolers. OK. It has nothing at all to do with Valentine’s Day, but it’s cute.
A New York Time’s article that might make you feel OK about being single
My latest addiction and a peek at my house on Vashon
I laughed hard at this one. I will never be able to look at a guitar hanging on a wall in the same way again.
What I’m getting myself for Valentine’s Day this year
And finally, a good reminder about being widowed on Valentine’s Day.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

 

 

My Valentine's Day Mash-up

[image error]I seem compelled to offer a sort of Valentine's compilation of interesting things I have found on the subject of love, dating and relationships:

 

 

Netted had an interesting compilation of dating sites today. To think I could look for dates among only Mac using men?
The Oatmeal's Worst Thing About Valentine's Day…
And gotta have a Crappy Pictures take on Valentine's Day.
Improv for Preschoolers. OK. It has nothing at all to do with Valentine's Day, but it's cute.
A New York Time's article that might make you feel OK about being single
My latest addiction and a peek at my house on Vashon
I laughed hard at this one. I will never be able to look at a guitar hanging on a wall in the same way again.
What I'm getting myself for Valentine's Day this year
And finally, a good reminder about being widowed on Valentine's Day.

Happy Valentine's Day!

 

 

How my Husband’s Death on 9/11 Improved my Life

[image error]This past weekend, I was honored to speak at Seattle University for their Search for Meaning Book Fair. One of the highlights was to see Mary Oliver read a bunch of her poems. I have been a huge fan of Mary Oliver for quite some time. She writes of animals and nature and spirituality in a way that combines them into one entity, always with a tiny unexpected twist, her wry sense of humor nipping you at the ankles just as you’re about to take your leave. She talked of her “Percy poems,” those written about a beloved dog, no longer of this world, but very much still part of Mary’s consciousness. She spoke of flying home on Sunday in time to see the Superbowl which cracked everyone up to her apparent bewilderment. She is a wry one.

When asked her instructions for living a full life, she responded with her usual refrain: “Pay attention, be astonished and tell about it”

Oddly enough, the homework that I gave my grief and loss class this week, the class I teach at The Recovery Cafe was to “pay attention” by taking a shape or color walk where you choose a shape or a color to look for as you walk.

I entitled my talk “How my Husband’s Death on 9/11 Improved my Life.” My mother, now living in BC, drove down to see me speak and was horrified, certain I would have a lynch-mob for an audience. But this was a spiritual book fair. I knew it would be understood, just as any widow(er) would understand. We understand that guilt we feel when the scab of grief has withered and fallen off, leaving that pink new skin underneath and we realize the richness of our new lives.

Reborn. Risen from the ashes. Alive.

A read of my preface, the part of my book that explains Alchemy as a spiritual journey of sorts, just as the grief journey is a spiritual one settled even those of my audience that were looking uncomfortable. There was more black widow humour and good questions. I sold a few books. People came up to me afterwards thanking me for my words, my honesty, authenticity, vulnerability – the traits that combined to constitute my audacious title.

The next day there was a fundraiser for the girls in Rwanda. A larger audience than last year. A new group of kids infused with emotion, empathy, a need to make a difference. They are the generation that will change the world. They already are. Everyone in that room was most definitely “astonished.”

My mom left with a new sense of our lives.

A new and “improved” lives of giving back and sharing our stories. Our life of “paying attention, being astonished and telling about it.”

 

Sometimes

1.

Something came up
out of the dark.
It wasn’t anything I had ever seen before.
It wasn’t an animal
or a flower,
unless it was both.

Something came up out of the water,
a head the size of a cat
but muddy and without ears.
I don’t know what God is.
I don’t know what death is.

But I believe they have between them
some fervent and necessary arrangement.

2.

Sometime
melancholy leaves me breathless…

3.

Water from the heavens! Electricity from the source!
Both of them mad to create something!

The lighting brighter than any flower.
The thunder without a drowsy bone in its body.

4.

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

5.
Two or three times in my life I discovered love.
Each time it seemed to solve everything.
Each time it solved a great many things
but not everything.
Yet left me as grateful as if it had indeed, and
thoroughly, solved everything.

6.

God, rest in  my heart
and fortify me,
take away my hunger for answers,
let the hours play upon my body

like the hands of my beloved.
Let the cathead appear again-
the smallest of your mysteries,
some wild cousin of my own blood probably-
some cousin of my own wild blood probably,
in the black dinner-bowl of the pond.

7.

Death waits for me, I know it, around
one corner or another.
This doesn’t amuse me.
Neither does it frighten me.

After the rain, I went back into the field of sunflowers.
It was cool, and I was anything but drowsy.
I walked slowly, and listened

to the crazy roots, in the drenched earth, laughing and growing.

– Mary Oliver

Red Bird (Beacon Press, 2008)