Sea Journeys

Conditioning and conformity

A friend asked me recently why I wrote, in my “about” profile, that I was “increasingly exploring how to go beyond social rules and conditioning".

To conform to social rules and conditioning is an easier life than the one I’m choosing. Obedience to authority makes life simple. To do what others - peer group, church, state – expect or say you should do, to play within the rules,  requires much less personal effort and risk than re-examining the rules and deciding for oneself, on a personal basis what is now appropriate.

Milgram’s famous experiment on obedience to authority – the inspiration for Peter Gabriel’s “We do what we’re told (Migrams 37)” - shows just how much people will compromise principles and just do something  because someone else ordered it- to do something because they will “fit in” to expectations.   In Milgram’s experiment 18, 37 out of 40 people fully participated in an experiment to shock someone up to 450 volts (the person being "shocked" was actually an actor), even though the information they were given was that this level of shock had major risks for the subject. This experiment has been repeated over the years with consistent results and no bias among men and women.

Comforming to the “rules” of the family, to the rules of the particular culture. Doing what is expected to fit in. Much as we think we are independent thinkers and doers, the truth is we often do that which we are told to do, that which we believe to be acceptable, that which helps us fit in with our friends, peer group, community and society. And we start learning this as very small children - what is OK and not OK in this family, in this school, in this group of friends. (And it is ironic that the countries which particularly emphasise personal and individual freedom and democracy – not least the USA and the UK, are also particularly adept at  attempting at trying to brainwash us into doing "what we are told", that there is "one voice" and "one truth" – and that’s of western capitalism).

I digress. I started this weblog entry thinking about personal conformity. Lots of rules for me to unpack and re-examine – some easier than others - but perhaps most centrally for me just right now is those given to me in early childhood.  What was OK in my family was not to be needy. To keep a stiff upper lip in adversity, to keep smiling, to keep quiet when you wanted to scream and cry out in pain, to be self-sufficient, to be healthy and not to be too much bother.  To be a “good baby” or a “good child” meant to play happily by myself; not to expect anyone to be there in my pain… to experience that ultimate existential aloneness which leads me occasionally, even now, into those feelings of desolation and despair. That I have “no value” and may as well die.

Is it any surprise I find it difficult to sing (asks Alexander in my voice session yesterday). That if I made a loud noise - maybe of joy and excitement, or maybe screams of pain or anger - then I was not a “good child”. I was too much.  So is it now “too much” for me to speak or sing with my own authentic voice; to stand in the sacred circle and really be heard?  To let go of expectations about how I will be heard or what the feedback might be. To risk being “too much”.  And to risk that, in making my own - maybe very loud - sound, that I will be met and really seen. To move into intimacy “Into- Me – See”

Its appropriate to list this morning another Rokia Traore song. Not only is the style of her singing distinct, but so are the poetry and social consciousness of her lyrics, which often urge women, in Africa and everywhere, to find their strength and transcend the confines of conventional gender roles. 

The  track is called "Kote Don" in native Bamabara. Listen to the first minute HERE - though this clip does not do the track justice at all- its a fantastic dance piece which just builds and builds, lasting nearly six minutes.

Kote Don
Rokia Traore

My joy de vivre is taken as shamelessness
My thirst for change for pretension
Faced with my curiosity, my quest for the new
Conservative minds spread slander
And question everything that
my times are about
But don’t listed to malicious gossip
It would be a waste of time
Yourth is ephemeral

Lets celebrate and dance the Kote

Ever changing, I dislike what is rigid, set
What "is" without knowing why
All that is hierarchical, static.
I respect my ancestors
But tradition is not infallible
It is not absolute. Time passes, we all change
Nothing remains the same.

This is for you, young people
Let's dance the kote.

Let's make the most of our time, let's celebrate.

From philosophy to science
Biology to history
I master the knowledge transmitted to me.
Nevertheless
The ancients reproach me for my curiosity
But it is true that I am the tightrope walker
Perched high on a wire
Overlooking disparity
The encounter between the culture of my ancestors
Where knowledge is transmitted in secret
Where the unsaid is fundamental
Since the world is sacred
And that of my modern education
Where nothing that is thought is inexpressible

Ithaka

 

As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - don't be afraid of them:
you'll never find things like that one on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon - you won't encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

 Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbours you're seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfumes of every kind -
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you're destined for.
But don't hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you're old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you've gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

 Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you'll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean

Constantine P. Cavafy

 

Art and healing

A couple of quotes this morning - guiding principles for what I'm doing in my life, and what I need to remember:

“We need to rediscover how to give form to our most urgent feelings, aspirations and fears, so that we may understand ourselves better: through movement, colour, rhythm, music, ritual and ceremonial; in our creation of a home, of a garden, of a relationship; in our living, in our loving and in our dying, as well as in a work of craft or art”  James Roose-Evans

"Art is an enduring process for it touches on the spiritual dimension in a way that no other human activity does. In art you are able to give expression to that which lies deep within you, and, having given expression to it, you receive back a vision which is a map by which you can set your other goals”  Anna Halprin

Summer Solstice

Its the summer solstice today. A time of light - the longest day.. and of fire. The day in which the Goddess is at the peak of her powers, and in some traditions, marries the god: their union is the force that creates the harvest fruits. 

A day for celebrating the power of the Goddess and that wonderful creative and fertile female energy. In honour of the women in my life - and indeed of the men for that matter (especially those men who have yet to understand the glorious nature of goddess energy) here's my poem to the Wild Women.

To the Wild Women

 

Padding silently,

on my soft feet

in the forest of your imagination.

We shall meet

in the dark deepness of the night

 

The ice-cold

far reaches of the universe

know my knowing. The

neutron stars

and the dark matter

resonate with my breathing.

 

My amber eyes

span aeons of time

and exist only in a moment.

My soft velvet pelt

melts under your hand

into skin

and softness in the half-light.

 

My children

are your children

and children to infinity.

My strength lies with you

in protecting, fighting, dancing

and loving.

My softness

curled up

in the warm hollow of your bedsheets.

 

Crying softly

with my loud howl

talking to your unconscious.

Tail flashing

in a future memory.

A beacon for your awakening.

 

Come gently

into my knowing

Leave muddy pawprints

on city pavements,

twigs and leaves on the underground,

a musty smell

as you brush past the curtains.

Listen.

Feel.

Live.

 

Journeys and adventures

"I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life...to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." ~ Henry David Thoreau

I've been chatting a lot recently with friends about journeys and adventures. Swopping stories of derring do on oil rigs with tales of floating weightless on astronaut training flights on the"vomit comet" over the Gulf of Mexico.  Of illegal trips over the border into India and being threatened with guns, and escapades being romantically pursued by 6 ft tall russian lesbians in Moscow pre- glasnost. Of plans and wild dreams to sail around the world.

But, in truth, these adventures seemed much less scary in retrospect than the inner journeys we had undertaken. The journeys to discover and confront those inner monsters, the hurt, the shame, the unworthiness. How many people shirk from the inner journey, and as a result - as Thoreau puts it

"...lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
..... What is called resignation is confirmed desperation; A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind". 
Henry David Thoreau

It takes acts of courage to confront our own inner demons.  To step out of the comfort of normal existence, over the edge into things we have not tried before, stepping into the unknown. The start of the inner journey could be as seemingly simple as daring to learn how to dance or to sing and thereby confronting the shame we feel about our bodies being "seen " in public, or our voices really heard. It could be as simple as daring to put up  a picture for all to see on the internet, or writing a blog, for that matter. Daring to be ourselves despite what others may think of us - or what we think they may think of us. And in stepping into the unknown of risking being ourselves- in no matter how small a way - we are often so surprised by the complete acceptance of who we are.

Martin Buber recounts how Rabbi Zusya before his death, wrote:

"In the coming world, they will not ask me 'Why were you not Moses?' They will ask me, 'Why were you not Zusya?' "

A must.. two Mary Oliver poems

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Sailing longings

Talking on email to Bajansailor - a friend in Barbados - has reminded me of how much I long to be back on a boat. Long sea passages and overnight sails - the picture is of us leaving Virgin Gorda in the Caribbean at sunset en route to St Barts - are just so special, and count amongst the many magical things I have done in my life.

Doing up and selling houses, and finding a new home is one thing, but I know that I also have a rootless and wandering side of me that wants to be off  on a boat around the world or at least on a long sea passage.  Its at times like these where I am tempted to put most of my money in the bank, give up on buying a house, and buy a boat instead. Problem is I don't yet have enough experience to contemplate  leading such a journey myself.

So.. cue the heavens.... manifest my wish for a lover and companion who shares my delight in the sea and in adventure!    Is it wrong, I wonder, to dream of a future which includes sailing off around the world with someone that I love completely, who I can sail in tandem with, each anticipating the others move, from the flow of the tack to the rhythm of the sea (thanks Chrissie for these latter words!)

  Wild nights--wild nights!
  Were I with thee
  Wild nights should be
  Our luxury!

  Futile the winds
  To a heart in port--
  Done with the compass,
  Done with the chart!

  Rowing in Eden--
  Ah, the sea!
  Might I moor, tonight,
  In thee!
Emily Dickinson
 
Or maybe I should aim to become a water gypsy...   

Thanks to Bajansailor, here's a poem called "Hymn to the Sea' by the Barbadian poet Frank Collymore

Always, always the encircling sea,
eternal : lazylapping, crisscrossed with stillness;
Or windruffed, aglitter with gold.....
Her lullaby, her singing, her moaning; on sand,
On shingle, on breakwater, and on rock;
By sunlight, starlight, moonlight, darkness:
I must always be remembering the sea."

Dance & trance

A poem by Sieannan Bell... just how I'm feeling

TRANCE (September in the Desert)

The room is blue
              with smoke and strange light
             the  music is beating
             its body against mine

            I dance all alone
                    aching
                        and arching
                    against pure sound
            I vibrate and burn
                    to drum and chant
            blissing out for hours

My skirt is tangled in my legs
My rings are tangled in my hair

I imagine the ground
        Breaking open under my feet
                I imagine the desert taking me in
        Other bodies slide and swirl near my own
        But I am nowhere to be found
            I am drinking smoke and lost in trance
    Somewhere out there
        I hear the moon howl back at me

THEN

Coyote sister comes
    dancing in disguise
        witha clever smile
        and laced up leather boots
            right there in front of me
She rides the wave of steady sound
            with tactile satisfaction
She's got crow feathers
            dangling from her ears
She's got silver bells
            ringing from her fingers
                and the whole damn time
                        her body
                is playing the blues for mine
                    and can you really tango
                    to trip-hop?
                    -because we did-

She laughed
            LOW in her throat
a subtle growl
                            twisting and braiding
                  her tawny hair into mine
                                        while we spun
                        cheek to cheek
bound together
                                    then pulled apart
                    by the same dance
by the same rythm
                                    of hips and hands
        beautiful
spinning finally away
        from me
                                until the room
                                        was 3am empty

The air was blue
                            with smoke and strange light
           the music was beating
                    its body against mine
        I was dancing all alone
                    arching and aching
                                against pure sound
        I was vibrating and burning
                    to drum and chant
                                pulsing out for hours

Energy!

I am full of  energy this morning. The decorators have finished and I am restoring my favourite room to its state of beauty; playing very loud music and leaping about with curtains and cushions in hand.    Its very interesting to me that after days of deep work and quite a bit of grieving, the lightness and energy floods back seemingly redoubled in strength: a celebratory feeling.  I am starting to fully appreciate Kahlil Gibrans's words: "The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain."

Animal as wildfire,
we explore & dance,
linger  like smoke
with haunting joy

Eternity is a feline blaze.
We circle freely
as sacred clouds
     & drink like gods   

Philip Kane    

Praise be to Eros who loves only beauty
and finds it everywhere

 ... sharing his own soft wanton grace
with all who let his presence enter in
faithless as flowers, fickle as the wind-borne butterfly
Lenore Kandel

And  today my Decree Nisi is pronounced in court. I am officially half divorced:  also worthy of celebration.

Kahlil Gibran on "Joy and Sorrow"

Then a woman said, 'Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.'
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, 'Joy is greater than sorrow,' and others say, 'Nay, sorrow is the greater.'
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.        

Today is Father’s day.

Love is life. All, all that I understand, I understand only because I love. All is, all exists only because I love. All is bound up in love alone. Love is God, and dying means for me a particle of love, to go back to the universal and eternal source of love.
Leo Tolstoy, from War and Peace

I‘ve been thinking a lot about my father recently, and back to that summer in 1972 when I was preparing to move from adolescence to adulthood; to leave home to go to university, strong in the knowledge that I had a secure home from which to venture out. But this was not to be: my dad unexpectedly died in his sleep a day before I started my final school exams, some three months before I left home.

I do not recall much of that summer, other than some glorious weather and a feeling of nothingness. But now, faced with what seems like a repeat of the situation: leaving my home of 16 years to go into a new world, alone; I find myself filled with all the emotions I should have felt that summer 34 years ago. Of feeling very existentially alone, of urgently wanting to fill that daddy shaped gap in my life, of how very hard it is at times to be an “on-your-own, take-care-of-yourself grown-up”.Of missing him with a depth and passionate intensity I didn’t know I felt until this year. Of anger at him leaving me vulnerable and hardly able to cope as an adult, all alone.

My father was an intelligent, strong and proud man, full of integrity, with a strong sense of fairness, an ability to love unconditionally, and a deep connection to nature and spirit. Of course, like any father he had his faults...  sometimes unavailable, sometimes tired; aprehensive about things overtly womanly or sexual (particularly women wearing red or whistling) and often setting very high standards. He was driven – partly by events in his own childhood - to make sure all his children were able to live in the real world without being dependent on others – that we could look after ourselves – that we were self-sufficient, sucessful and capable. That has been both a gift and a curse.

Like many women who lose their father early, I have at times found myself searching for a father substitute; seeking to fill that yawning gap he left by his sudden and premature departure.   Seeking to replicate his energy in both work and love relationships. Seeking to find a man with both his power and his passion, who would understand me in the way that he did, and who could meet me in that circle of intimacy and unconditional love. But there is no road back, and I need to remember to love who I am with, not some projection of my father. In the immortal word of Crosby Stills Nash and Young:  "If you can't be with the one you love... Love the one you're with".

I will end with two pieces of poetry for fathers day

The dead are gone and with them we cannot converse.
The living are here and ought to have our love.
Leaving the city gate I look ahead
And see before me only mounds and tombs.
The old graves are ploughed up into fields,
The pines and cypresses are hewn for timber.
In the white aspens sad wings sing.
Their long mumering kills my heart with greif.
I want to go home, to ride to my village gate.
I want to go back, but there is no road back.

From "Chinese Poems"

And a Hebrew prayer for my father, on this day

In the rising of the sun and its going down,
We remember them.

In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,
We will remember them.

In the opening buds and in the rebirth of spring,
We remember them.

In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of summer,
We remember them.

In the rustling of leaves and in the beauty of autumn,
We remember them.

In the beginning of the year and when it ends,
We will remember them.

When we are weary and in need of strength,
We will remember them.

When we are lost and are sick of heart,
We remember them.

When we have Joys we yearn to share,
We remember them.

So long as we live, they too shall live,
For they are now a part of us,
As we remember them.

                                                                      

Imagine the Gods

I imagine the gods saying, We will
make it up to you. We will give you
three wishes, they say. Let me see
the squirrels again, I tell them.
Let me eat some of the great hog
stuffed and roasted on its giant spit
and put out, steaming, into the winter
of my neighborhood when I was usually
too broke to afford even the hundred grams
I ate so happily walking up the cobbles,
past the Street of the Moon
and the Street of the Birdcage-Makers,
the Street of Silence and the Street
of the Little Pissing. We can give you
wisdom, they say in their rich voices.
Let me go at last to Hugette, I say,
the Algerian student with her huge eyes
who timidly invited me to her room
when I was too young and bewildered
that first year in Paris.
Let me at least fail at my life.
Think, they say patiently, we could
make you famous again. Let me fall
in love one last time, I beg them.
Teach me mortality, frighten me
into the present. Help me to find
the heft of these days. That the nights
will be full enough and my heart feral.

Jack Gilbert

(again!)