Killing the Witch in 10 Days

Assignment: Meditation retreat. Rules: no talking, eye contact, writing, reading, music or meat. Commitment: 10 days solid (10 hours a day), plus 2 days on either side to immerse and resurface.

Not talking for 10 days was not the part of the meditation retreat I found difficult, although I still take pleasure in saying, “bless you” when someone sneezes as a result of cultivating awareness of this programmed response. Now I really mean it.

The hard part was the lack of music. The first three and a half days (36 hours!), which were grueling, had us working on Patanjali’s 5^th & 6^th stages of yoga. Basically shutting down the turnings in the field of consciousness (the habitual way our minds work, skipping around from one topic to the next in a free-association romp).

To meditate for a minimum of 10 hours a day is to truly connect to the untrained nature of our minds. In yoga classes, you hear about training the puppy (mind), bringing it back again and again when it wanders off chasing crickets. I was lucky enough to be used to meditation and the seated posture (sitting with the spine erect in order to open up the central column), but these could not save me from the often hilarious soundtrack playing in my head.

I love music. That’s what I missed. It only took a few hours for me to tire of concentrating on points (in this case, the tip of my nose) and loose my focus. My mind was a veritable Pandora playlist, and the DJ had a plan. I laughed out loud sometimes (not exactly welcome in a meditation space where everyone is trying to withdraw from external input and ignore the rustling, shifting and occasional groans of discomfort as a result of sitting still for 10 hours day after day). I suggest bringing a donut for days 6-10—not the kind you eat. I learned what matters to me as certain songs and lyrics visited again and again. I let the music play sometimes, relinquishing control to see if there was a reason my mind-DJ was planning this song, then sheepishly returned to the practice of focusing my attention in an attempt to silence my inner soundtrack. I kept thinking, if I could play the songs that were visiting me, maybe I could silence them. No music allowed, no eye contact or writing either.

The lack of eye contact, I thought would make the exposure to 30+ other human beings for 10+ days less exhausting. I live alone, and often find too much exposure to people, even people I love and am having fun with depleting. I need alone time the way plants need sun. The funny thing is, you don’t have to look people in the eyes to absorb their energy or be affected by their mind states. There was a lot of anguish and suffering in that meditation hall, and I took every opportunity to sit outside, in my room, and later in a meditation cell to find a purer space to attend to the spring cleaning of my mind in order to clear a space to find the witness within.

When our minds were allowed to break free of our nostrils (pronounced nose-trills) and expand the meaning of “start again” it felt like the clouds had lifted and the warm sun had finally been wrenched free (it hadn’t, in fact it was really cold and rainy for more than half the retreat—in June). WEEEEEEEEE! My focus shifted to scanning the whole body piece by piece and part by part and the magic began. I discovered I could not connect to the ring toe on both feet, but was more surprised that every other part of me was accessible to my consciousness.

When I started practicing yoga, I would hear cues like “interior rotation of the inner thigh, drape the scapula down the back body, lift the sternum...” and I’d think, who the heck could isolate and act on those commands? Now I could, and with 6 months to process my experience I understand why this is so important. I no longer live in my head, directing my body like a reluctant robot-puppet whose abilities I did not comprehend at all. My consciousness has dropped down and is as much in my hands and feet as my heart and head.

The focus on the body also taught me that I can handle pain, in fact I found pain interesting. The way the pain in my left shoulder blade had a heat to it, constant for long stretches but totally bearable. Other pains were sharper, ice cold and metallic but quick. The problem was not pain; it was irritation. I have no patience for stupid things that could be easily fixed or should not happen in the first place. My practice was often about not scratching that pesky itch or tucking that flyaway strand of hair behind my ear so it would STOP tickling my cheek and noticing how my mind state affected my body. The tension was immediate, a clenching and drawing in like a fist. When I did manage to calm my mind, the tension would release and often (but not always) the symptom that allowed me to work with my inner-cranky was gone. A scratched itch without the scratching! ) I did have some major bug bites, and cort-aid before sitting also helped.

On day 6 I entered territory I’d only glimpsed at before in shavaasana and meditation. I don’t yet know how to talk about it, and this is probably why I’ve put off writing about the whole experience. I’ll tell you about the side effects. I did not sleep for 3 days, but I was not tired at all. I felt completely present and absolutely charmed by everything I saw, the world was suddenly in Technicolor just like when Dorothy opened the door of her house and found she’d killed the witch. The love I felt was a golden stream emanating from within; I could feel it shining through my pores, my pores dissolving. In the meditation hall (I think on day 8) my palms lit up and opened and in that instant the Guns & Roses (?) song popped into my head with the line “Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame…” and I had to leave quickly so I could laugh and laugh. Heart chakra receptors in the palms—indeed!

Some would say I found god on my retreat, I say I found grace. That grace was accessed by yoga: union of mind, body, spirit. I found the witness patient and joyful and I now know she is not hard to find, all I have to do is open up to now to access her.

I also found gratitude so deep and wide I tear up at the thought. How full my life is, how loved I am, how lucky to have so many to express love to and share life with.  I let go of the lack I’d been fighting with for years. The painful jealousy of those who have what I want: a mate, children—these essential parts of being human I felt deprived to be living without. How could I be deprived with the fullness of my life? I get to teach writing! I get paid to poke and prod students to wake up and engage in their lives and make a difference. And yoga, seriously? Finding yoga was my way home, back to my body, to my truest self, full of love and unafraid to shine. That I have the honor of teaching yoga classes is a daily gift, I learn so much every time I teach. Do I still hope to share my life with a mate? Absolutely. But I now know that I share my life with so many and I do have children in my life that I care about deeply and have the honor of watching them grow and offering my support.

My three-year anniversary of finding yoga is the last day of January. My thanks (in the order they brought me deeper into yoga) to Louise, Tricia, Elke, and Tom. To have such amazing guides and teachers is the truest sign of the blessings I now embrace and acknowledge with deep gratitude.

Final Note: I did drive directly to McDonalds upon leaving for a Big Mac, large fries, and a HUGE iced mocha. Absolutely divine. I also have to thank my roommate, Delia, for making our shared space one that felt calm and safe—a sanctuary. I know she was a gift too, one that I cherish sharing the experience with. You made coming out of the depths so much fun!!! If only we had a bottle of wine to celebrate our last night! Some day : )

True

Been a while, the end of another semester is fast approaching. Taking time today to prepare for the end of the semester grading crunch that will consume the next few weeks. Read a journal entry from a while back--prompted by Elke reading a "This I Believe" (NPR series and book) essay in yoga class. Thought I'd share it. This is what yoga has confirmed for me (so far). I don't just believe it, I have experienced it as true.

Enjoy : )



I believe love is our birthright; the thing that makes us human. The ability to open up, to love fully lights us up with unimaginable joy. We are born with an infinite supply of love to give—we can never run out or run low. A perpetually full tank. The more we let it out, the more we feel it emanating from within.
 
I believe love flows back to us and connects us to each other and ultimately to source. Let love in and it brightens our hearts, like oxygen fuels fire. Love doesn’t grow when we let it in; it simply becomes more visible.

Fear and anger, pain and suffering, can dampen our ability to connect to source—to experience the light of love that dwells within. Through yoga we work through the layers of delusion—of pain and sadness, fear and regret—so that we can see clearly the amazing light that is the soul of who we are.

Christians say that god is love. I believe that love is the soul of humanity. We are luminous beings, every one of us. Service, kindness, laughter, joy, empathy, forgiveness, compassion—all of these grow out of love. When we hold love in or put up walls to keep it out, love dwindles to embers.  The more you let it flow in and out, the brighter it radiates.

I believe love nurtures the best in us: kindness, humility, humor, forgiveness—and it’s opposite drives away our humanity. When we hate we’ve lost our connection to each other, to self, to source (god).

The yogic sages tell us that understanding who we are is essential. We get there by negation: neti, neti (not this, not this). At the end of the negation comes the revelation. We are energy and that energy is luminous light. Practice living with an open heart and open to all that you are. You are love.

Bucket or Fire?

"Education is not the filling of the pail, it is the lighting of a fire." --W. B. Yeats

This is a quote I give to my students every semester. It is shorthand for a very simple question: are you a bucket or a fire? I want the fires. I am happy to fuel. It is not my job to fill.

Last week in advanced compostion, my students came to the conclusion that they require both--are in fact both. How can they synthesize and create, come up with new ideas and solutions, if they are not given their fill of the bucket to then process and draw on? It is their job to take their fill and discover what is fuel. Perfectly sensible. There are plenty of concepts and ideas that they must obtain (bucket): Toulmin logic, the rhetorical situation; understanding how to appeal to an audience with the topics that interest them, and then bend and shape their approach in tailored ways for that audience (purpose). Simple, yet it has been over 20 classes and this is the first one that made this simple distinction--we are both bucket and fire.

This points to purpose in teaching. It is my job to select the concepts for the bucket, to present them clearly so the students can then take the ideas and use them as fuel to prompt their own inquiry to feed the fire. Have I mentioned how much I love my job?

I have been struggling with my own learning process. Pissy and defensive because I feel like I've been treated like a bucket in my yoga teacher training. Here is a list of questions: now memorize the answers. The Budda's teachings, sankya philosophy, Patanjali, Vedanta, postures, sutras, anatomy: yoga teacher training has felt like an endless stream of concepts I'm expected to digest whole and spill out verbatum. Where is the experiential wisdom? When do all of these ideas grow from bucket(filler) to fire (fuel)?

The teacher has to present the bucket (basics) in a way that allows the students to process the information and make it their own. Let it fuel the fire. I have tried to ask questions and promote discussion in yoga class--in an effort to develop understanding. Squeaky wheel--a role I am used to playing (my Mom has pointed out my tendency for years a la the James Taylor song Shower the People. I'm the middle child--I'm the link, the one who notices, the one who wants everyone to not simply get along but understand). I'm tired of squeaking in yoga class, I wish more people hungered for understanding enough to speak up. I care enough to question and poke--and yet it feels like I'm just an annoyance, holding back the flow of filler for the bucket. 

Years ago, I learned what happens when I get overwhelmed with information at RISD. Too much is like a blanket, it snuffs out the fire. I came in to art school loving drawing, and by the time I left it had become an abstraction--and worse it was work. I lost my passion for making art.

I will do my best to protect the embers that remain. I don't want to loose my appetite in this buffet of information. As a student I need to remember to take responsibility for nurturing and protecting my own intellectual curiosity. This is my fire to tend, I need to sort out the fuel and accept what I see as the filler. Because who knows what will become fuel in the future?

Top 100 Words

I found the list of my top 100 words (see post below). Here they are in alphabetical order:

bawdy, bite, bounce, brim, callous, candid, cinnamon, crass, crave, creep, crunch, daisy, defenestrate, dusk, elation, erudite, euphoria, fawning, ferocious, fervor, fey, filament, fountain, frippery, fuck, fume, gangly, garrulous, giggle, gloaming, gory, gorgeous, grace, grate, grimy, grisly, gross, gruesome, guttural, honey, hope hiccup, hilarious, irate, irk, irreverent, illuminate, jaunt, jerk, juicy, lethargic, lick, lily, lugubrious, luminous, lush, mercy, mincing, munch, myopic, obtuse, ocean, odious, ogle, passionate, peaceful, pillow, pity, pompous, primp, prestidigitory, pungent, putrid, rant, rile, rip, sagacious, salacious, scrape, serendipity, shirk, skin, silly, sizzle, stammer, steam, suck, sweet, tickle, undulate, vacillate, vapor, veranda, virescent, vivid, wanton, weep, willow, wisp.

I think I'd keep most of them still. Funny there are no As--what about amaze?

Here's the top 10 (as rated in September 2004):

ferocious, fuck, giggle, grace, hilarious, luminous, lush, sagacious, tickle, virescent

Virescent is one of those words that popped into my head and I didn't know what it meant (I don't recall the circumstance). It means to become green. Green is my favorite color (especially a bright lime version that is what I like to call iguana belly green--or Larry belly after my dear, departed pet iguana).

Yesterday, abrogate popped in (while I was showering, so I forgot)--I know I've known its meaning, but I can't access it. It just popped in again as I was writing this so it obviously needs to be looked up: to put aside, to put an end to.

Ok, I can take a hint--I've got piles of papers to grade!

What Not to Do

So much of teaching is prompting discovery. I can tell my students what not to do, but most will do the don'ts repeatedly. This is no surprise, I do plenty of things I know I shouldn't. I waste time and then get stressed out that there isn't enough time. I behave badly: I dislike (sometimes I hate), I feel envy, I blame (sometimes me even). I don't write even though I know writing will feed me. I don't eat well (unless Kit Kats and cheetoes qualify as nutritious). 

I forget what I know until I rub up against it again. Sometimes it isn't so subtle, more like bouncing off a sliding glass door I thought was open. Sometimes it is just a whisper. 

A few years ago I was out in my yard at 3 AM because my dog woke me up. He couldn't wait until morning? I had opened the gate and was peeking in the downstairs windows at the work my tenant was doing on the space. I felt a feathery wisp on my leg. "Andre!" I screamed, "get in the yard!" Andre is not furry. What I felt was not my muffin daring out into dangerous territory without a leash. There is no part of him that is feathery (maybe his whiskers), he is all tightness and compact muscle. The skunk at my side froze. I looked into the yard to see Andre ready to pounce. "UPSTAIRS!" I demanded and Andre obeyed. The skunk did what skunks do. I was in my nightgown, it was a hot summer night, still and stifling. I had the nightgown off before I made it to the top of the stairs. My eyes squirted stinging tears. After showering for a long time, I got out to discover I couldn't tell if the stink was gone. Every window in the house was open, my whole house was suffused in the smell that makes me gag for miles when I pass skunk roadkill on the highway--even with the windows up. 

Some students get the glass door ah-ha, others the whisper, some the skunk--the lucky ones find their way to knowing somehow--if I do my job well. I whisper, I do cartwheels and dance, I yell and rant, I beg and plead, but mostly I ask questions so they can find their own answers. That's my job.

An old friend from high school (the friend/best friend as only going to an all girls high school can cultivate--I like to think we were on our own island in what often felt like a sea of bitches) commented recently on how ironic it is that I am a teacher, considering all of the bad teachers we had way back when. She went so far as to say they were destructive. Those were some of my best teachers, they showed me what not to do, over and over again. 

But the best teacher is experience, the awareness of oops--because sometimes knowing what you should or shouldn't do isn't enough. Sometimes the hard way is the only way to learn. We do stupid things. So I'll keep giving my students the heads up on ways to avoid mistakes and they'll keep making them until the oops resonates enough to change their behavior. And I'll try to avoid skunks, but I'll continue to keep the windows (and doors) open.

Finding the Right Fit

I love words. In my favorite class of all time, Sylistics, we had to make a list of our top 100 favorite words. It was a few years back, but I can still remember some of them: giggle, defenestrate, hope, frolic, fuck, silly, vomit,  grin, illuminate, kismet, fear, luminous...

I learned that I have an affinity for two kinds of words.

1. words that sound like what they mean

2. words that are amazingly specific in their meaning

Learning sanskrit has altered the landscape in my mind. Strange plants, some beautiful, others simply functional have nestled in among the daisies--the best are a combination (form and function). Many of the words are simply shorthand for ideas I've had for a long time that took a lot more words to articulate in English.

It is a truly amazing thing to discover words that fit your beliefs. 

"To be of use." That's how I've articulated my goal in life for years. In the best, truest, most positive and productive way--to be of use (I stole the phrase from Homer Wells in John Irving's "The Cider House Rules"). And now I find that there is a (sanskrit) word for that: dharma. In the Bhagavad Gita, it is the Dharma of the warrior (Arjuna) to fight. For many of us, dharma is not so clear. 

What are we meant to do? How do we fit in and find a way to feel fulfilled?

I have a trick that I use to keep me awake (as opposed to asleep/dialing it in)--or as my friend Andrea put it to me many years ago: you have your kite with your key and it needs to be out there in the storm--and it is. But you are sitting on the couch, warm and safe and dry. The kite is out the window. Get up, go outside, and get wet. However you want to put it--to test that you are engaged, alive, present, awake (not on the couch)--think about this:

What would you do if you won the lottery? More money than you could spend in a lifetime. After you bought houses for your family and friends (is that just me?) and went on a trip with everyone you wanted with you to celebrate (tropical if you're me). Eventually you'd have to settle down and do something with the rest of your life.  How would you fill your days? 

I'd write and teach writing and yoga.

What would you do? I hope you're doing it. If not, what are you waiting for?

Tanning--What's Next?

In the beginning of the semester, I give my students a questionnaire to fill out. Basic questions to help me get to know them, and also to help me put them in groups of 4-6 for the semester. At the end of the form, I ask them to tell me a little about their interests. This year, several students listed "tanning" as an activity.

Admittedly, I've never been to a tanning place, but I still can't fathom getting cooked under damaging false sunlight as a fun thing to do. What's next? Showering? Doing the dishes? 

I don't get it. And yet, if the goal is to be in the moment (present)--and that is the goal because happiness is a state of being and can only be glimpsed in the moment--and tanning does it, so be it.

Last night in yoga class I had my first visit of a sanskrit word. Words tend to pop into my head at strange moments, words I don't know and have to look up in the dictionary. The classic example: in a heated argument with my old boss (we were screaming), I blurted out; "What does defenestrate mean?" He didn't know. I took a break and went downstairs to my office to find out. It means to murder someone by throwing him out a window.

Such a great word, defenestrate--so specific. Who knew? A week or so later the word was used on Law and Order. 

Which brings me to coincidence. Did you ever notice that things often coincide and align in a magical (freaky) way? This morning I was chatting via facebook  with an old friend and I reminded her of the foot fetish guy we met after going to the Rocky Horror Picture Show. This evening, an author was on NPR talking about his book about desire and aversion--fetishes. The first example was a guy with a foot fetish. Have I mentioned that I don't like feet at all? Yuck.

Maybe I'll tell my prostitute/foot fetish story tomorrow.

The word of the day (from last night's yoga class) is: abhyasa. It means constant practice. Yoga on and off the mat. Yoga, by the way, means union, yoke, to join together: body/mind/spirit. Tanning bed or shower, we all have a duty to find our way to presence. I think I'll grab some playing with my dog.

Is That Really You?

I just joined facebook and it was the strangest thing to see the suggestions (for friends/people I may know)--ghosts floating up from the past. 

Has me thinking about old wounds and the friends I lost in the process. Which leads me to today's topic: compassion vs. sympathy.

Tricia (Open Heart Yoga) pointed out in class the other day that when we feel compassion we "feel with"; sympathy only allows us to "feel for". 

The dangers of compassion: feeling too much. Sympathy is safer, a one way flow (you give what you can, even if it is just empty words).

An overactive imagination can fuel compassion into a conflagration of epic proportions. This is what allows me to write, but it is also what can unhinge me at times. Sympathy is so much safer. There are no walls in compassion. You become the other, in that you experience their emotions fully. The upside is that it isn't all pain and suffering--joy and celebration transfer too. A risk worth taking. 

Decide to go with the flow--literally. Compassion means letting emotions out and in (see the holiday post). The next time a stranger (or someone you live with) does something completely maddening--put yourself in their shoes (sorry for the cliche) and respond from there. The old "do unto others" advice is easy when you allow yourself to become the other.

Example: my old neighbor put Andre's (my dog) poop on my stoop (funny rhyme). She boasted it loudly. My reaction: I was sorry to hear that she took pleasure in acting with malice. I asked her why she didn't talk to me first. Had I done something to suggest I was unreasonable? I told her I couldn't imagine being proud of such an act. I said I hoped she was willing to talk to me and resolve it.  My reaction was heartfelt (I was stunned she would do something so mean--she seemed really nice). She apologized. After that, she went out of her way to say hello and be pleasant.

Maybe when people do recklessly mean things, they just need someone to calmly hold up a mirror and ask with compassion: is this really you?

Get Inspired

Just watched this talk by Elizabeth Gilbert (you should too):

http://www.ted.com/talks/elizabeth_gilbert_on_genius.html

(If it doesn't work as a link, copy and paste it.)

The talk is 19 minutes, so grab a cup of coffee and settle in, then come back to discuss.

My reaction....

I'm not doing my job.

I know this. I've known this.

All the excuses rain down, I'm drowning in excuses.

• Teaching comes first (responsibility to my students).  I can't discount this one, other than the fact that teaching leaves plenty of time for writing.
• I don't have anything to write about. This one is easy: if you build it, they will come. I know I have to sit down and do the grunt work if I want the muse, inspiration, source--whatever you want to call it--to show up. A simple freewrite would unearth countless possibilities.
• I don't have anything I really want to write about (the way I did with Salt Licks/novel 1). See above--mining for gold is the responsibility of the artist, we can't expect inspiration to magically show up. Sometimes it does, sure. Other times, we have to pursue it, or at least in my case, sit down at the desk and invite it in.
• Yoga Teacher Training is my first priority (after teaching) and it takes so much time and energy. Yes, true. I committed to making it a priority. Not true that it takes all the remaining (non-teaching) time. This excuse is especially troubling since writing about my experiences would help me process what I am learning and coming up against personally (last night it was the sticky issue of past lives/reincarnation).
• Family & friend commitments. These are by choice; and the fuel that keeps me joyful and connected. But it is writing that keeps me sane, energized--my best self to share with others. To not write is to weaken my ability to shine. I realize I am ignoring my dharma when I don't write (what I'm meant to do/my way of being of use in this life). Teaching is only half the equation, to be the best teacher of writing, I need to be a writer who writes.

There are other excuses, but none of them stick. The drowning is an illusion. I stand on dry ground and refuse to get wet. 

I have to start doing my job again. Show up, jump in, and don't just tread water and gaze anxiously and the shore. Swim. Dive below the surface and see what's hidden there, waiting for my attention.

Open and Fearless

Today in yoga class at Tricia's (Open Heart), my fear of balancing poses persisted. (A recent development in the past few weeks that started with an injury--a pull in the muscle attachments to my left sitting bone.)

I can't.

Try.

I can't.

My body obeyed. You can't go beyond what you think.

We were in our fourth and final dancer and Tricia said, "balance comes from within. Fill up the pose with internal energy, don't worry about what it looks like on the outside."

Let go (of control).

Let go (of fear)

Release.

And just like that, I felt like a balloon suddenly free of the crimps. All the twists gone, the energy expanded and the pose grew from the inside.

I felt like one of those balloon animals that had been twisted every which way, suddenly allowed to expand and take my true shape in the moment. The dancer lifted and expanded without any effort from me.

A holiday reminder: Stress is largely self-constructed (by fear, resistance, what we think/decide we know to be true). Truth is available to us every moment, but only if we are fully present. Change is constant (moment to moment)--reliance on the past erases our ability to live in the present. Let the change come. Be open and fearless. Let love out, and in.

Peace.

*For Xoc

The semester is fantastic, teaching fiction writing a gift beyond reason. I knew I loved teaching, but teaching this activates my better--best self as teacher.

Caught up in versions of self lately. The life of teaching--reactivated after a summer at rest. Now the writer-me sleeps, rests, restless in the back of my mind. Melody (my character in novel 2) is whispering to me. Trying to tell me things, but I can't listen now. Love (or the possibility of love) activates it all--me at highest volume, all parts screaming to be heard. A tangle of selves that surely isn't just noise. A chorus maybe. Singing gospel.

Thank you for making me think. Giving the writer-me a moment to breathe, and drink in what you wrote.

Cheers

*go to my friend's blog for the inspiration to this: http://spectorgant.blogspot.com/

Loathsome Predictability

Listening to reggae affects me the same way as students who think 101 and 102 are a waste of time. At first, I barely notice the back beat of complaint. We don’t need to learn to write we already know how. If the level of their writing was equal to that of a college student there’d be no requirement—they would have placed out of first year English. But I resist the urge to reply and try to tune out the noise.

The beat continues, wah-wah, wah-wah, wah-wah. They say, we’re here to become nurses, engineers, graphic designers, accountants—we want to take classes in our majors. But a college education includes the liberal arts to develop the whole person; it is not simply a trade school for acquiring certain skills. If students don’t develop the ability to think, problem solve, and speak clearly and persuasively, they’re unlikely to advance at work, if they manage to get hired at all.

The repetitive beat is tiresome. Even their actions are predictable. They never try very hard on the first assignment. They figure they can pass with a C if they turn in all the parts. As if life is like kindergarten and effort is a factor in success. Of course it can be, if the effort produces results. But this is college and results are the only thing that matters. Do they think their boss is going to care that they tried when they really screw up?

I can feel the heat flushing my face, I can’t ignore it anymore. I probably never could. And now I’m angry. The voices may change, but they all sound the same. Every semester there are students here who want to learn and they are hindered by the resistors—those who want a degree without an education. How long until they commit to learning or drop?

The loathsome predictability makes me queasy. Reggae is easy, I turn it off. But in the classroom I teach to the best and wait for rest to decide their own fate. To recover from the droning I purge my system. I play a song I like, really loud. One with a beat that makes me get up and dance and lyrics so well-said, I sing along.

The Agony of Disnial (or Change Is Good--Right?)

President Bush said something yesterday (2.12.07) that really made me think (gasp):

“Asked outright if he [President Bush] had changed at all in the last six years, he said no: "You'd better ask Laura, but I feel like the same fellow who came up from, uh, Texas. I don't feel changed." (Melinda Henneberger for the Huffington Post)

He hasn’t changed in six years as President of the United States? Jonathan Lethem has a great article in Harper’s this month (http://harpers.org/TheEcstacyOfInfluence.html) that illuminates the impossibility and lack of insight embedded in the President’s statement. Lethem’s article explains that people are collages—each one of us is in essence, a pastiche of our experiences: who we know, what we read, what we watch on TV or hear on the radio—a walking talking bundle of influence. As such, we develop and grow with every waking moment. Every time we take in any form of influence (a conversation with a friend, listening to a new song on the Ipod, reading the newspaper…) we are changed.

What does it mean when the man who has been our commander in chief for the last six years believes that he hasn’t changed? Obviously, there are countless issues that could be raised to counter his claim. In the last six years, we have all changed. In fact, we’ve changed in the last six minutes (if we’re awake). As sentient beings, we’ve been influenced (changed) every waking moment of every day in the last six years. We’ve learned the difference between a tidal wave and a tsunami, felt fear and horror and rage as we watched two buildings tumble, listened to the MSM as it built the current administration’s case for war with none of the journalistic integrity that involves questioning sources and facts for verifiability and truth—actions that had consequences (war), although the MSM remains unable or unwilling to accept or understand their culpability.

I know I’ve changed. There are the obvious signs: quit my job, went back to school to earn an MA, became a teacher (and now can’t imagine why it took me over 35 years to figure out that this is the work I was meant to do), sold my house and moved to a different state. Then there are the less obvious changes: I’ve made new friends, reconnected with some old ones, fallen in and out of love (ouch), read countless novels and nonfiction, written a novel and started another one (believe me when I say that fictional characters can influence the writer, mainly because as a friend pointed out, characters synthesize the writer’s experience in ways the writer hasn’t consciously been able to—this insight is what drives me to write. Well, that and curiosity about who the characters are and what their story is), watched some seriously bad TV (Survivor addict)—and all of it has been added to the collage of me. I am changed.

I don’t need to ask anyone in my life to decide if I’ve changed in the last six years. Sure, my sisters, parents, friends, and colleagues might add to my understanding, but I get it, I don’t deny I’ve changed. I embrace the ecstasy of growth and learning that is an integral part of being human. Maybe I’ll be more careful about what I add (suddenly parental worries about bad influences expand exponentially and I worry about the crap I’ve let myself read or listen to or watch. See Lethem’s section on “Contamination Anxiety” for more). But the bad influences can’t hurt me if I just remember to filter what I take in; to question and vet the influences as much as I deconstruct the ingredients in a particularly appealing entrée when I’m out to dinner (is it lemongrass or ginger?).

Maybe the President’s wife could help him out, at least remind him that he, like me, changed jobs and moved to a different state in the last six years. Once he gets past the obvious signs, he can consider the less obvious influences. Because he has changed and so has our country and the rest of the world.