The Divinity of Loneliness.

Any real-deal personal growth process requires some uncomfortable and intentional hard. ass. work... as no one's coming out changed for the better without a thorough examination into the realities and roots of our deepest fears.  I’d imagine that what lives in the darkest caves of the soul is a special little concoction of horrifying ingredients somehow unique to each of us. Yet, through my fascination with fear facing, I keep noticing how many of our concoctions have fear of impending loneliness as a primary ingredient.  It is, without question, a big one for me.  And because it’s such a big one for me and so many others I know and love so well… then, hey, let's get talking about it already.  Ya dig?

Hafiz, a 14^th century Persian mystic poet, wrote this poem (as translated by Daniel Ladinsky): 

The Quintessence of Loneliness

I am like a heroin addict in my longing for

A sublime state, for that ground of Conscious

Nothing where the Rose ever blooms.

O, the Friend has done me a great favor and

So thoroughly ruined my life; what else would

You expect seeing God would do!

Out of the ashes of this broke frame there

Is a noble rising son pining for death, because

Since we first met, Beloved,

I have become a foreigner to every world

Except that one in which there is only You—

Or Me.

Now that the heart has held that which can

Never be touched, my subsistence is a blessed

Desolation, and from that I cry for more

Loneliness.

I am lonely.  I am so lonely, dear Beloved, for

The quintessence of loneliness.  For what is more

Alone than God?

Hafiz, what is more pure and alone, what is as

Magnificently sovereign as God?

The common feeling, especially in relation to romantic relationships, is that if you aren’t in one, then you are alone.  And if you are alone, then you are lonely.  And if you are lonely, then that is bad, because it’s fucking terrifying and can feel like it’s going to last forever.  But when we choose to lean into this uncomfortable space, we begin to find that there’s so much essential sacredness in it.  This is where we really get to see ourselves because we aren’t reflecting the image of anyone else.  This is where we take responsibility for our own happiness.  This is where we figure out the kinds of people we really want to be with, where we do our deepest soul searching, and where we learn what it means to be graceful with ourselves, and eventually truly learn to love ourselves.  When we can embrace the divinity of loneliness, we can genuinely be with others because we are no longer dependent on them staying around forever.   We don’t need to manipulate people with guilt trips, victimization, and passive aggression.  We don’t need to feel eternally wounded by old rejections and abandonment.  We can just feel pure gratitude for the time that we have, with the knowledge that all relationships are subject to change and loss at some point or another.   I’m not suggesting that it’s cool to be alone all the time, as that’s an unhealthy end of the spectrum, but I am suggesting that sitting in and eventually surpassing the pain of loneliness might be one of the hugest accomplishments for overall life success.

I’m reading a book right now called, “Mating in Captivity” by Esther Perel (a pretty revolutionary text on love, sex, desire, and intimacy) and she takes it a step further, speaking on the essentialness of loneliness within a relationship.  I’m just going to quote a big fat chunk of it because it’s truly worth sharing:   

…We seek intimacy to protect ourselves from feeling alone; and yet creating the distance essential to eroticism means stepping back from the comfort of our partner and feeling more alone.  I suggest that our ability to tolerate our separateness—and the fundamental insecurity it engenders—is a precondition for maintaining interest and desire in a relationship.  Instead of always striving for closeness, I argue that couples may be better off cultivating their separate selves.  If cultivating separateness sounds harsh, let’s think of it instead as nurturing a sense of selfhood.  The French psychologist Jacques Salome talks about the need to develop a personal intimacy with one’s own self as a counterbalance to the couple.  There is beauty in an image that highlights a connection to oneself, rather than a distance from one’s partner.  In our mutual intimacy we make love, we have children, and we share physical space and interests.  Indeed, we blend the essential parts of our lives.  But “essential” does not mean “all.”  Personal intimacy demarcates a private zone, one that requires tolerance and respect.  It is a space—physical, emotional, and intellectual—that belongs only to me.  Not everything needs to be revealed.  Everyone should cultivate a secret garden.

And so now I’m working on shifting my relationship to loneliness.  Instead of relating to it as a temporary condition that will hopefully someday be healed, I’m learning that it’s actually an essential part of all of life stages, to be embraced forever.  Which, I don’t know about you, but for me feels like the biggest relief of all time. 

The fight’s over.  Loneliness wins.    

Never has loneliness been so glorious.

No Ifs, Whens, or Thens About It.

Bargaining. 

A recurring story line that plays out in the head and goes a little something like this:

If/when ___________________, then_________________________.

aaaaalright, I’ll fill in the blanks with a less-than-flattering recurring bargaining scenario from my own brain, as such scenarios tend to go that way:

WHEN [and sometimes ‘IF’ depending on my self-esteem stature] I become successful in a career as a writer-teacher-artist, THEN I’ll be ready and worthy of True Love.

(That was really uncomfortable to write just so you know. But I did it…I did it for you.)

Trista and I have this book we call “The Daily”.  It’s actually called The Language of Letting Go, by Melody Beattie, and is made up of daily little ditty’s that support a person’s healing journey from co-dependent relationships.  Every evening after we finish a super slammin’ home-cooked meal that we alternate in preparing for one another, we break out The Daily and soak in the wisdom.  Topics include things like: trust, letting go, anger, prayer, acceptance, all 12 steps of the 12-step program, and many, upon many other areas (totaling 365) that are worth sitting with and processing in some capacity.  And so we read, and then we take turns talking about how the specific theme applies to our historic and current realities. 

The other day, we read about denial.  The dirty little joke about denial (the book tells us) is that you can’t know that you’re in it when you’re in it because that’s the whole dang nature of it.  It’s not until some time passes and you can reflect on a past version of yourself to see what you were in total denial about [ooouuuchh moment], and then actively work toward adjusting/understanding the behavior in present time.  And so Trista and I sat thinking for a minute… “Hmmm... I wonder what I’m in denial about? Well, no way to know!”

Moving on.

One day later, we read about bargaining.  We were both hazily familiar with this 

term, had heard it contextualized as one of the grief stages – sandwiched between anger and depression – yet both of us had kind of glossed over it as not being that important because it felt kind of obscure and was mostly associated with a savvy consumer activity.  But as we read more about the nature of bargaining - which is basically the act of trying to negotiate with reality, vacillating between believing there is something we can do to change things, and realizing that there’s not, it all became a lot more real for us.  When it was time for our reflections, we both sort of confessed that we do that sometimes.  And then we thought about it more, and realized that we don’t just do it sometimes, we do it all the freaking time! For almost everything!

“And so,” we began to slowly unravel, “if we are constantly cutting deals with ourselves...all the time, about almost everything, what would it be like...to not?”

And that’s when it happened.

BREAKTHROUGH.

To not say, “When I’m working successfully as a writer-teacher-artist, then I’ll be ready and worthy of True Love,” means that I’m ready and worthy of True Love……Today! Go. Figure.  

To not reflect on the past by saying, “If I wasn’t so naïve in such and such situation, then I wouldn’t have gotten all hurt and stuff,” means that I can truly move on from those past pains and kick all those if’s, when’s, and then’s to the curb. Sayonara SUCKERS!

What bargaining really seems to be is another subconscious control mechanism (why have we humans developed so many of these?) that only really functions to make us feel inadequate while seriously limiting our potential. 

I honestly have no idea what a bargain-free existence looks like, but something tells me that it’s rooted in some super powerful acceptance.  Accepting what was, what is, and what will be – without taking so much ownership of past rejections and hurts. 

And what’s SO great about tackling this particularly daily is that it has a very consistent format [remember: ifs/whens, and thens] which makes it very easy to detect.  Because the first step, always the first step in any active healing and growing process is awareness.  Catching yourself in the midst of a bargain and being like, “Aaaah snap! I’m doing it again!” And then sitting with it for a minute and asking, “What’s this bargain reeeeeeaaaally about?”

Newton's Third Law.

My cat baby, Moo has been missing for a week.

And Newton has 3 laws of motion.  His third one says:

To every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction. 

So, what does Newton’s third law of motion have to do with my lost precious cat child?

Here’s what.  I moved to Ferndale Michigan from the depths of Southwest Detroit about 2 weeks ago.  Making the big leap out of the city and into the nearest burb is no comfortable decision making process.  It took months and months of agonizing and changing my mind every 5 seconds to finally decide that there was no other way.  And in these past couple of weeks, my excruciating decision has been totally validated, as I’m completely elated in my healthy new home front.  My house has all the darling vintage charm that I require of a nesting ground (and is not infested with ants, flees, and fruit flies), my landlord is a top-notch, high-quality human (not addicted to drugs, with junkie friends breaking into our home and stealing our belongings), my street is safe, friendly, and walkable (I’m no longer being serenaded by gunshots and cuss-out battles as I drift off into dream land) and just one mile down the road is everything this girl needs to thrive…cultural diversity, yoga studio, sweet coffee shop, library, healthy food markets (not strip clubs, pawn shops, liquor stores, and fast food).  This Ferndale land is straight up LUXURY, to say the least.  My roomy Trista and I have just one word for it…..and that’s “Heaven”.  It just works really well. 

Now don’t get me wrong.  I’ve still got mad soul love for the city.  The people are the realest and the beauty is the rawest.  There is no other place for me to teach art to the children, and there’s no other place that I can journey through the entire emotional spectrum in just one afternoon.  I fell deep and fast with the city of Detroit as soon as I first stepped foot two years ago.  It was that intoxicating lustful energy that you are fully convinced is nothing less than true love that will last a lifetime.  I can still remember how it felt.  I will hold that feeling tenderly, always.  But it wasn’t sustainable because my needs couldn’t be met.  Like walking.  Walking is a big one for me.      

So I’m happy.  I’m happy that I no longer feel paranoid when I’m at my house, nor when I leave my house.  I’m happy that I can finally enact the routines I need to make big steps in my dream-life-process. 

And in the midst of all this elation, my baby didn’t come home one night.  And then not the next night either.  And then not the next 7.

And as most of you probably know, losing an animal is like, the saddest shit ever.       

And so now I’m in the process of doing everything I can to get her back.

I posted this note on a hundred of my closest neighbor’s windshields:

Hey Neighbors!

I just moved to the hood and can’t find my sweet cat.

(Well, she’s actually not that sweet, but she’s super cute and I love her tremendously).

Petite, short-haired, white with black spots…like a cow. Her name is Moo.

If you’ve seen her, please do send me word.

530-559-4754

My name is Halley, and I appreciate you looking out.

Peace & Pet Love.

I called a psychic to see if she could channel Moo’s where abouts.

I’m visiting shelters, and walking around the neighborhood, often, calling her name.

And after I’ve done all that I can, I’ll work on accepting the fact that I may never see her again.  But, I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.

And so, back to Newton.  According to him, when great shit happens, so will it’s polar opposite force.  Doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t keep reaching for greatness, but to know that in doing so, our strength and faith are always being tested.  In order to truly achieve our highest, we must be willing to cultivate mad strength through the ability to be with whatever it is that life offers us.  So here’s to life upgrades, and here’s to sadness, and here’s to pet love, and here’s to Newton’s law that makes good sense of things.  

And if you have any additional tips on animal finding, I'd appreciate your wisdom.   

The 5 to 8 Happy Dance.

Last night to get my wind-down on, I took a nice hot shower, and retreated to my room to bust some yoga moves before bed.  A few deep breaths into a pigeon I had the realization.  Holy Shit.  I’m an 8.  So sneaky!  So good!  I gently undid myself from my stretch, to go announce this triumphant revelation to Trista (my all-star roomy for those of you who have yet the pleasure of encountering her glory).

“Soooooooo…“  I eased in. 

“Yes?”  She replied, as she diligently tackled her free-lance work deep into the evening hours. 

“All summer long, my quality of life maxed out at a 5.  But NOW I’m an 8!”

She stopped what she was doing to express genuine congratulations.  And then sat and pondered her numbers for a minute.  “Yep, that’s exactly me too… 5 to an 8!” 

And then we happy danced.

Being a 5, on my personalized spectrum, is something like a soft depression.  Functional, yet for the most part, joyless.  Seem regular, but the light is perpetually on dimmer mode.  It’s the fight or flight space.  The yearning space.  The attachment space.  But what I had a hard time acknowledging at the time, but can see oh so clearly now, is that this space serves a very useful purpose...

When made the most of.

What did I do to cope with my 5-ness?  I started this blog project.  I painted my ass off.  I discovered avenues for teaching art to kiddos.  I found an amazing therapist who helped me see that I need to have more fun in my life.  I didn’t move across the country.  I empathized with other 5’s whom I love, whom are also eagerly shooting to be 10’s.  We work diligently to support each other.  Every day we make contributions toward healing one another.  In a reasonably short period of time, I situated my life just the way I want it to be… for the time being.  And all this, not because I was a 10, but because I was a 5, and didn’t want to be forever.  

And then ya know, at some point I became a 6, a 6.5, and a 7.  But I didn’t notice these subtle shifts.  It took being an 8 to realize how far I’d come.  The emptiness that no longer feels so empty.  The joy that is much more readily available.  The attitude of non-attachment to particular outcomes that I am way more comfortable navigating through life with.

And my ability to boogie again.  Yes, that's right…Stella got her groove back.

My goal of course, is to be a 10.  But I’m open to the fact that I might be a 2 again before I get there.  It’s cool.  Because the TRUTH IS OUT: nothing lasts forever. 

And we have each other. 

And we get exactly what we need, when we need it. 

So we climb, climb, fall, climb, fall, climb, fall, fall, climb, CLIMB, CLIMB, CLIMB……

And realize, momentum is infectious. 

And faith takes us right where we need to go. 

Believing in the 10, every day, is the hardest part at first – and then makes everything, and I mean EVERYTHING so much easier. 

         

The Grind of Goodness.

Today, my morning meditation was about repetition.  The invaluable conditioning of a practice… of doing something over and over, day after day after day, through the heights of experience, and the depths of unwillingness.  When it’s fun and when it sucks.  When it’s exactly what you want to do, and when there’s 700 things you’d rather do. 

Trista <3

The only way to build endurance.  

The only road to mastery.

I haven’t written in a few weeks.  I’ve excused my way out of. 

Aaron <3

I’ve denied myself of its therapeutic properties.  I’ve chosen other activities, other habits, other life-loving exercises, and I’ve neglected my weekly writing practice.  And so today when I finally decided to sit down and write again, I had nothing to say.  In my previous 13 weeks of this here blog project, I’ve been devoted to my repetitive writing process with a no-ifs-ands-or-buts-about-it commitment akin to brushing my teeth.  This whole “nothing to say” thing hadn’t yet been an issue.  And it surprised me... each n’ every time.    

Michelle <3

But because of the simple fact that I had been conditioning myself, my weekly writing idea began to rhythmically emerge just when I was ready to start something new.  And when it came, I got on it… as right away as I could swing it.  Each day after my initial purge into the word document, I revisit my work-in-progress, build upon it, and get it to a point that feels... releasable.  Sometimes it takes a week, sometimes two days – as there’s continuity in the process itself, I know now to honor the fact that each piece is unique in its evolution.

So here I am.  Back on it, writing about not being on it, wondering what it takes to stay on it.  To remain committed.  To have no excuses in devoting myself to something that brings me no financial reward, but makes my heart feel whole and my life feel jubilantly purposeful.  Anyone committed to some kind of ongoing practice I’m sure can humbly attest to the fact that it ain’t easy… and that sometimes it hurts like hell.  But as it goes, it’s usually only painful in the beginning.  Eventually, the floodgates open and (sometimes gently, sometimes furiously) the flow of holy good stuff unleashes. 

Because it’s The Grind.  And not The Grind of the Man.  Of the 9-5 office job that takes up too much of your life, as a trade-off to feed and shelter yourself.  Oooooh no.  This Grind nourishes you directly.  It slowly but surely, day-by-day, builds the foundation required to live a life that’s full and meaningful.  It’s The Grind that builds strength, resilience, discipline, commitment and consistency.  It’s The Grind that pays homage to the precious time we have here.  It’s The Grind of Goodness. 

And it’s about this feeling. This feeling of fullness I have right now, that comes from sitting down to do the thing that transports me to my high place.  And even though it took a whole lot of internal kicking and screaming to get here, I’ve arrived, and I’m back.  I’m BACK on The Grind. 

Dante <3

So hey, if you fall, be easy with yourself.  Because we all know that it’s not the fall that counts, but how long it takes to get back up.  To remount that little red bicycle sans training wheels with scuffed up knees and a chipped tooth, and ride our way back home.     

(pictured above are some of my gorgeous besties, whom all, incidentally have daily grinds).  

The Courage to Make Amends.

July 22^nd marked the day of my sweet friend Dante’s golden birthday…22 years, wiser all the time.  We’d been talking for a while about visiting and photographing his abandoned middle school, Malcolm X Academy, the most memorable and valuable educational experience of his youth (Afro-centric and progressive in many ways), and it became quite apparent as we mulled over how to commemorate his evolution that his birthday was the perfect day to take on that mission.  And so myself, Dante, and beautiful Swedish Rebecka (making her return to the D after spending last summer studying, discovering, and loving Detroit and all that it is), squeezed into my two-seater pick-up and headed on over to the west side.

The moment we heaved ourselves up into the building through a broken out window, the intensity of the experience felt almost overwhelming.  I'll let the pictures speak for the visual impact – an all too common scene here in Detroit, but what became more and more astounding as we moved deeper through the building was the slap-you-across-the-face, BLUNT symbolism of our educational emergency, of our continued racial oppression, and of our human situation that seems to be so lost and mis-prioritized that this sort of thing can just… happen. All over, all around us. 

A once beautiful space of learning, where black students celebrated their heros, and provided themselves with the human right to learn about their people, their culture, and their history was now nothing more than a heaping pile of despairing evidence of what once was.   

We traipsed through every classroom, every closet, every bathroom, searching for clues.  It had been 10 years since Dante walked those halls, but it remained well preserved in his memory.  He remembered each of his old classrooms and the names of all his teachers, Mama and Baba instead of Mr. and Mrs.  He led us into the classroom of the teacher who still used the paddle, and the one who generously paid his way to be part of a mentorship program called My Brother’s Keeper.  We even stumbled upon the little corner where he got caught making out with his first girlfriend.

We discovered that after the school closed as Malcolm X Academy (which has since re-opened in another location, Dante’s old computer teacher is now the principle), it served as an alternative school for one year.  We unearthed an old syllabus that revealed the name of that School: Last Chance Academy. As if in naming, they were preparing for everyone's doom.   

When we got to the gym, Dante remembered that there was a big portrait of Malcolm painted on the center of the floor.  We used our feet to vigorously kick off the trash and dust off his face.  And as his face became exposed, so became our purpose there.  We were there to visit a past.  Dante’s childhood past, our city’s educational past, our nation’s unjust past, so that we can make something of amends for our future.  We are going back to the school to wash Malcolm’s face clean – to pay our respect, and to make a symbolic vow to use our energy and talents to strive for liberation, for all people.

That night when I got home, winding down from an oddly beautiful day, I was sitting in bed checking email.  I accidentally hit the “sort by date” button, so that my emails were listed from beginning to end.  Up popped a good 5 e-mails from my mom.  I’ve known in the back of my mind for the past 5 years since her passing that I had evidence of our correspondence floating around in my inbox somewhere.  That her being my mom, and me be being her daughter, and our communication with one another as such was documented and stored.  I hadn’t yet been ready to take that on.  After the day at Malcolm X, and experiencing Dante’s courage to revisit a place that was once alive and real, and now long gone… I suddenly felt able to go there. 

The emails took place a few months before her death, while I was traveling and studying in Greece for the summer.  I was recapping my experiences, and she was being a mom.  Happy, proud, supportive. 

“I cannot express how I've been feeling all day.  I cannot believe that I have a daughter such as you, who has prepared (her whole life, without knowing), and propelled herself to such a place where she is worthy of all the universe has to offer.  I am so proud, so happy that I am your mother...  You go girl!”

What I thought would be too painful to relive, was actually just perfectly okay.  I’d been holding on to this idea all this time that she didn’t care enough about herself or me to prioritize her health and avoid a sudden death. 

But now I can let that go.  I can choose what to remember her by, and I will remember her for what she gave me.  And so this is me, making amends.   

    

We cannot save that building.  We cannot bring back the kids from that blighted hood to learn about their heros in a setting that was created for their empowerment.  And I cannot bring back my mom and make her exercise and quit drinking and smoking.  But we can go there.  We can cultivate the courage to revisit our pasts and make peace with them.  And with the gorgeous nature of the past, we can just sort of drop in for a visit, and then leave again when we’ve gotten what we need.  We can squeeze out the love, only to realize that the pain isn’t so debilitating anymore.  We can show our respect and gratitude for the gifts the experiences have given our character, and remember that the most powerful tool we have for liberation and transformation are our stories.