A Website of My Own

Pulling on my big-girl pants, I step into a whole new adventure--my very own Word Press website! Thank you to web designer extraordinaire, Blake Webster (really, that's his last name) at Media Design. I'll be posting from the new site, so please join me over there: jolauer.com

Thank you for following me these last several years as I stumbled and splashed my way into the world of blogging. I hope I've provided you some moments of entertainment, inspiration, reflection, or just a short escape. There's a Comment feature on the website, so feel free to stay in touch that way.

Remember, I firmly believe that we are all unique expressions of the creative spirit. Shine on!

jolauer.com

Start Where You Are Today

Today, I’m feeling soggy—absolutely done-in by days of unrelenting rain. It’s the kind of weather that could bum me out if I let it There’s a very real condition called Seasonal Affective Disorder that actually does “do-in” those who suffer from too much meteorological gloom (and a lack of vitamin D). Those of us who are not biologically impaired by weeks of gray skies and saturating rain, however, stand a better chance of turning around those bummed out feelings.

Still basking in the afterglow from the recent performance of my metaphysical blues song, Start Where You Are Today (if not from the “glow” of the sun), I’m reminded that by changing our thinking we can change our experience of life. Sounds simplistic, but is not for the faint of heart. Borrowing from the lyrics of the song, we perhaps can’t change our circumstances (or the torrential rain outside my window), but we can change the way we experience them. It also reminds us that we need to start somewhere—preferably today. Corny as it sounds, today really is the first day of the rest of our life. Just try changing yesterday.

There are examples too numerous to site of people overcoming seemingly unendurable circumstances by shifting their perspective—Viktor Frankl comes to mind (Man’s Search for Meaning), a prisoner of war with no real prospects of survival who became an esteemed philosopher and inspirational teacher. But, that’s a really big example. What about us regular-folks?

What about those of us who feel weighed down by an elongated season of rain? Day after day of no sunshine, temperatures that never rise above fifty degrees, ruts in the driveway that get deeper and deeper with the onslaught of water, potted plants that have drowned and hopefully gone on to a better place—we become morose, lethargic, eat more carbs than we know we should. We drag ourselves to work with a lack of enthusiasm and an attitude befitting Eyore. Can we just “snap out of it”? Possibly not—but perhaps we can think our way through it to a less stressful experience of it.

To look at our thinking, we have to notice the stuck spots, the places of self-sabotage. Back to the song—a guy is sitting at a stop sign waiting for the light to change—talk about self defeating—with one foot on the gas and one foot on the brake, wondering why nothing is happening. Have you ever been there?

His question of angst is “Why try, we’re all gonna die anyway.” Well, yes, it’s true—we are all going to die. A whole generation of kids who grew up in the era of the bomb shelter in the back yard held the same question. I guess the focus should be on what would you like your quality of life to be between right now, and then? The guy in the song rails about the role of fate, and the admonishment to not push the river—it flows by itself. Again, this is not about controlling the outcome, but rather influencing the process by which we get there. The journey—not the destination is our focus.

So, what are the good things that can come out of all this rain? Even though the ground water is backed up like a bad sewer right now, over time it will seep deeper and deeper into the earth, reaching those tree roots and dormant plants that have been waiting for this miracle of nature to kick-start their growth cycle. My lilac bush has burst into bloom, despite the torrential rain weighing down it’s branches. Trees and plants are good. Imagine a world without them. They need rain.

On rainy days, I’m less likely to busy myself out in the world. I become more introspective; I move at a slower pace; I rest my body more deeply than when I’m running about “getting things done.” Slowing down is actually good for our health.

Natural beauty is its own reward. The dusty greens and musty yellows of the dry season are pretty in their own subdued way. But, the vivid colors that emerge after spring rains are enough to make me dizzy. The neighbor’s plum tree glows with pink flowers snuggling close to its formerly bare branches. The lavender color of my lilac along the back fence soothes my senses. The dust-free green of the vines that will soon spout clusters of purple wisteria, glisten as they gracefully drape from the tree boughs. The deep rust of the redwoods, saturated with water, are not seen anywhere else in nature’s colors.

I’m sure you can make your own list that will help add some balance to the scale of coping. For me, I’m still looking forward to sunshine—which I know will arrive, eventually. In the meantime, I feel a little less hostile as I pop an extra vitamin D, grab my umbrella, and head out into my day. Hmm. The air actually smells pretty good.

At The Whim of the Muses

Some writer friends and I were talking about what drives us to write. We agreed that for whatever reason, we cannot not write, but the motivations were varied. For one writer, there are definite stories she wants to tell. Crafting the storyline, inter-weaving the plots is ultimately satisfying for her. For another, he wishes to create an income doing something he loves—something he’s proud of. He searches for stories that have not been told, many times the behind the scene stories of a headline news article.

We agreed that there were probably as many reasons to write, as writers. “And you?” they ask me.

It seems that I am at the whim of the muses. I write stories out of the universal consciousness as the characters call to me. For one of my novellas, I was shown a mental picture of a small boy standing in front of a mirror, drizzling strands of Christmas tinsel over his head to make him a beautiful woman. He needed me to help him through a sex change later in his life. Before that, the word reincarnation wrapped itself around my brain and wouldn’t let go until I finished a book about an unrequited lesbian love affair in the1700s, England. In a short story, a woman with multiple personalities needed a hand it getting out of an abusive relationship, and begged me to write her an escape route. In a collection of short stories, the theme of returning home kept emerging. In one of those, a young girl from the bayou hitchhiked across country to “find herself” in San Francisco so she could return home to take over the business she was to inherit. Without that quest, she would have lived a quietly miserable life, trapped in a go-nowhere existence. In another, a young Miwok girl beckoned me with mental picture of herself and her younger brother picking blueberries in a field. The girl is stolen and raised in another tribe, and fights for her life to return to her people. It amazed me how many versions of returning home there actually were when I began listening to the characters.

There appears to be no rhyme or reason to what I write—I just show up when I’m called.

Visual Feast from the Techno/Dino

My last Post spoke of a culinary feast. This one speaks of a visual feast.

My stodgy old dinosaur-self, (who thinks that perhaps computers are just a fad that will surely pass soon—hopefully soon enough that I won’t have to learn all the bells and whistles on my already-outdated Dell), occasionally collides with my present-day in the real world self who is in awe at having the universe at the tip of my fingers through cyberspace.

The above photographs came to me via a friend who downloaded them from the Internet. I don’t know how to find the artist(s) to thank them and credit their work. I do know that the images moved me, and isn’t that, after all, the purpose of art? There’s something timeless about the castle reflected in the palm of the hand, the lightning in the desert, and the sheep trudging up the mountain trail. Anyone from any culture could find meaning in those images. They’re familiar and at the same time strange and intriguing, powerful and stimulating—the stuff from which dreams are made and inspiration is taken.

This is a creative universe, and these photos are proof. I would never have seen them had it not been for an e-mail, and it is my pleasure to share them with you. Even my dinosaur-self can’t argue with that.

Living as a Creative Act

One of the things I love about Creativity, is all the glorious forms it takes. A friend of mine has been “creatively” living with cancer for much longer than she or any of us thought was possible by utilizing homeopathic, herbal, traditional, as well as way-outside-the-box options. Her blog is full of intimate details of the living/dying process that humble me as a reader. Most recently, she spoke of perspective—that thing we all have available to us, at any time, free of charge, if only we’ll allow it.

She writes, “For the past 3 weeks I've needed 1 unit of blood a week. It's lucky that I get eased into most of this stuff slowly. If I'd gone from once every few months to once a week, I would've been a wreck. But now, each week, I think, "Oh good, only one unit!" My, how our perspective can change.”

Like many people, I’ve lost friends and family to various forms of cancer. I’ve watched the battle, the hair loss, the nausea, the lethargy, the weight loss, the bloating. Out of habit, I’ve thought of it as watching a loved one die from this terrible illness.

Indigo Crone has shown me another perspective, that of living with a condition called cancer. At any moment, she’s likely to go into hemorrhage or be overcome with nausea or fatigue, but in between those and other debilitating symptoms, she is up playing board games with friends, watching a play at the local theater, shopping (albeit slowly) at her favorite Community Market, attending a gathering in her honor (above), keeping all of us Blog-friends updated, and most notably, observing and luxuriating in the beauty of nature around her—the birds and flowers that surround her home—grateful for every day, every hour, every minute as a gift of life.

I marvel at the possibility of global transformation if we all lived life more like that.

We gathered, a huge crowd of us whose lives she’s touched by her presence on earth, to celebrate and support her in one big love-fest of a fundraiser. It occurs to me, we don’t have to wait for pending death, or large gatherings to tell those who have inspired us that we care. Start today.

Don’t Go Numb

Once again, technology trips me up. On January 18, I saved a blog entry along with a video on vulnerability, connection and the role of shame, to be posted this week. It seems that when I tried to bring it out of the Edit file and post it today, it chose to cling tenaciously to its January 18th original date. Please scroll down to January 18th and check out this inspiring video.

Dude

I never know when a story idea is going to spring into my mind. I was sitting in my therapy office, waiting for the arrival of a new client, a young man, wondering what sort of experience this would be. From his intake form I noted that depression and anger were his primary issues.

It was ten minutes until the hour. Sometimes I let my mind wander and play with the possibilities of how a new client will look, sound, how they hold their body, what manner of speech will they use--mental entertainment. A smile played on my lips as I imagined an adolescent voice saying, "Doooood," in that elongated, stoned sort of way. The story began to unfold, but was interrupted by my client's arrival. I supressed a grin as the young man before me in no way resembled the client in my head.

Over the course of a week, the following story emerged:


“Dude,” he says by way of greeting.

“Dude,” I say as I step back and motion him into the 8 x 10 cell that passes as a therapy room in the psychiatric clinic where I spend my daylight hours. Feeble sunlight filters through a slit of window.

He eyes the sofa, and then my chair.

“Mine,” I say. “Yours,” I point to the couch that matches the colors of the art on the wall behind it.

“Dude,” he says again as he settles his gangly frame onto the couch.

I can’t wait to see how this is going to turn out, I think. So far we’ve transacted business and established turf with one-syllable words.

“I’m Alice,” I venture two syllables, using my first name over the more off-putting “Doctor” that six years of schooling affords me.

He nods. I already know his name of course. I’m holding his chart. I put it on the spindly wooden table next to my chair.

“Drugs,” I give a nod towards his chart.

“Drugs,” he says and gives a what-can-you-do shrug.

He’s twenty-three going on fourteen, dressed in baggy black pants and an oversized sweatshirt with a sports logo on it. Large feet in expensive running shoes with laces undone tap out a rhythm my ears don’t hear. A mop of shaggy hair the color of corn silk brings out the boyishness in his features. His eyes are dark amber, flecked with mahogany. He twirls a baseball cap on his finger as he takes in the room, risks a glance my way.

“Shamus,” I try out his name and wait a beat. “What isn’t working for you right now?” I anticipate a clip remark or a smartass retort heavily laden with denial.

A deep sigh, full of troubled years, disappointments, fears, and frustrations preludes his answer. “Life, man,” he says finally. “Life isn’t working for me.”


“Oh no, not another one,” Sylvie said with a roll of her eyes as I walked in and tossed my briefcase on the étagère.

“What?” I said, embarrassed at being so transparent.

“You’ve got that “rescue sad puppy” look. Another kid? Abused? Abandoned? We have our quota—one dog, one cat. That’s it.”

She knew me well. Sylvie and I had been living together for six years. The first of those years we were lovers. That didn’t work out. We make great family and take liberties with each other we’d never dream of taking with friends. Sylvie saw me through my clinical social work program during which she survived years of neglect and misdirected frustration, although she may not have noticed as she was doing her residency in pediatrics at that time.

“Let me remind you of GeriAnn, over whom you grieved for a month, unable to eat, sleep; you’d burst into tears at the drop of a hat, you could barely function at work,” she said, her eyes holding mine in a “don’t go there” mandate.

“She overdosed,” I complained. “It didn’t have to happen. We failed her,” I pleaded.

“Bullshit, the girl was a drug addict.” Sylvie’s tough love approach to the heartache that came with the territory of working with troubled teens was belied by the quiver of her bottom lip and the break in her voice. I loved that about her.


The next week Shamus sat on the couch in my office, his eyes fixed on a point outside my window.

“What are you looking at so intently?” I asked.

“Wind,” he said, as if it should be obvious.

“You mean the effect of wind—like branches blowing, clouds drifting…” I clarified.

“No; just wind.” He brought his attention back into the room, squinted at me as if gazing through a bank of fog, and allowed me to finish the intake form.

I relayed the eerie quality of Shamus’ session to Sylvie during dinner that night.

“So, did you ask?” she said, giving me that piercing look that suggests I’ve missed an incredible opportunity.

“Did I ask what?”

She sighed. “What wind looks like, of course. Aren’t you curious?”

“Wind doesn’t look like anything; it’s invisible,” I said, sounding oddly defensive even to myself.

“I wonder if it looks different than breeze, for instance…” she mused, lost in thought.

The following week, Shamus sat looking at the floor.

“Something on your mind?” I inquired. “You appear to be avoiding eye contact with me,” I observed aloud.

“There’s too much stuff in the room…” he said.

I glanced around the room; there was the same amount of “stuff” as there was the previous two weeks—sofa, chair, desk, small table, lamp.

“…between here and there,” he said, gesturing the distance between us.

Sylvie’s voice rang out in my mind, “Did you ask?” I leaned slightly forward in my chair and asked,

“Can you tell me about the stuff you see?”

He raised his chin slowly; his eyes seemed to refocus like when you come from the sunlight into a darker room. A hint of a smile played on his lips and his shoulders relaxed for the first time since we’d met. The next moment, it was as if a dark cloud had moved in suddenly and shrouded him. He turned away, lips pressed tightly together.

“Shamus, what just happened? You were going to tell me something, then you stopped yourself,” I shared my speculation.

“You wouldn’t believe me; no one does,” he said, his voice a mere murmur.

“I want to understand your experience, Shamus,” I said, noticing for the first moment that I really did want to know what was going on in his mind. At that moment I wanted to know so badly that tears were brimming in my eyes. I blinked to clear them.

It’s a common phenomenon in therapy for the therapist to actually feel the feelings the client is unable or unwilling to feel. I took a big risk and said, “I’m feeling incredibly sad right now; I’m not sure why.”

When he turned his head to face me again, tears rolled silently down his cheeks. He put his hands to his face and patted the wetness as if unsure it was coming from him.

“I’m thinking you’ve been holding onto something way too long,” I shared. “Are you ready to take a risk and tell me about it?”

A moment passed, then he said simply, “I see space.”

I merely nodded, prompting him to go on.

“Between solid objects, where other people see only emptiness…” he looked at me to see my reaction.

I kept my face neutral and nodded again.

“I see molecules; billions of them, smaller than the ones that make up solid objects. They’re in constant motion. They’re everywhere—there’s nowhere that they’re not.”

“My God,” I uttered, overwhelmed by the very thought.

“I used to think I was crazy. It wasn’t until Science class in the fifth grade when we learned about molecules, that I understood what it was. I must just have really, really good eyes.” He folded his hands in his lap and stared at them.

This young man has had to create a different language to explain his experience of life, one that no one else shares. There’s no respite. How do you even keep your balance when the world is in constant motion around you? Shamus, indeed, saw air. Now the drugs make sense! The isolation of living a life like this tore at my heart. I was speechless. I put my hand over my heart and patted it gently.

Shamus looked up, took note of my gesture; he raised an eyebrow, and with a shrug he said, “You asked.”