Post Chrysalis

No posts for six months.  It's not that I did nothing.  In fact, I was pretty busy.  Work, travel, writing a play, preparing for and acting in a play, and so on.  Busy or not, I had the time to write posts in this blog, but I chose not to.  I thought I'd try to explain why (mostly for myself, but read along if you'd like).

 Over the last six months, the metamorphosis I began a few years ago intensified and shifted.  Almost every morning I get up early to have "Brad time," an hour and a half or so of time to read, meditate, do Sudoku, drink tea, and establish an intention for my day.  (I wrote more about this in an earlier post; see "In the Morning Hours" posted on December 13, 2008.)  In contrast to the years I spent rushing headlong into my work day, this morning time gives me an opportunity to slow down.  I get to "be" for a bit before I "do."

Despite the calming influence of my morning time, but perhaps because of the avenues of introspection it offers, I began the year deeply unsettled. I felt alone, lonely, cut off, somewhat depressed.  I needed only to think of my Dad, dead since Halloween of 2006, to tear up and ache in my heart.  The news that I received from my daughter in the late winter, that she was expecting a baby this summer, filled me with joy on the one hand, but intensified my malaise on the other.  How could this be?

I finally figured it out when, at the urging of my friend Alan, I decided to start the ten week regimen of the "Presence Process."  The Presence Process is described in the book of that name by Michael Brown.  It is not particularly difficult to do, but it does require patience and commitment.  For ten weeks a person is asked to do "continuous breathing" (aka meditation) for 15 minutes first thing in the morning and last thing at night, read materials in the appropriate chapter of the book, and keep an activating statement in mind whenever possible.  The Process is designed to take one backwards first through the body, then through the mind, and finally into one's emotions, the very stuff of life for infants and young children.  The Process is not an exercise in blame, but an opportunity to understand, feel, forgive, cleanse, love, and respond (rather than react).

What I discovered in the Process was this (and it was a visceral, not mental, discovery): a profound gratitude to my parents for the love they gave me, a better understanding of what they couldn't give me (or what I thought they couldn't give me), compassion for them in the many ways that their lives were unfulfilled, and a sense of peace in my relationship with them.  I also discovered a better understanding of how my own emotional struggles impacted my daughters, generating emotional experiences for them that will affect them throughout their lives.  The next time through "The Presence Process" I hope to find the means to forgive myself for the many ways I failed to act out of the unconditional love I have always had and will always have for them.

My granddaughter was born this last Wednesday.  She is beautiful and my love for her was both immediate and complete.  When I was telling Shayla about my granddaughter at the farmer's market this morning (Shayla is one of the farmers), Shayla said, "This is a whole new phase of life for you.  It will be wonderful."  Maybe by being in touch with the earth Shayla is particularly in tune with the energy of those she meets.  Or maybe, fresh sprung from the chrysalis, I am still glistening with soul as my wings get ready for flight.

At My Table

We had a new solid oak table delivered today. It was much needed. We have six big chairs that fit comfortably around it, even without one of the two leaves in. With both leaves in place the table looks like an aircraft carrier. At least that's the way it looks when compared to the table it replaces.

I got my old table in August of 1992 when I separated from my wife. I can't remember where I got it, only that I ordered it from a catalogue and had to put it together, along with the four chairs it came with. It was a sturdy, square, blonde wood table with a high sheen and four cloth covered chairs. It had leaves that pulled out of the end and settled into place, as if by magic. It wasn't big or fancy, but I didn't have room for big in my new apartment and I didn't have the budget or the taste for fancy. (Anyway, I consider myself a better cook than host, so what money I could afford as I set up my new household I put into good pans and knives.)

So, no, my old table was nothing to write home about. But here's the thing: it was my table for more than 17 years. At my table I shared meals with my daughters as we navigated, clumsily, the whole split family situation. Mealtime was the one time I had a fighting chance to connect with them, really connect with them, because they liked the food that I cooked for them or that we cooked together. We made individual pizzas on my table with their friends and colored Easter eggs. Eventually we shared my table with their guys, too.

At my table I shared meals with my Dad and Grandma (his mother), now both dead. I took over the role of holiday and Sunday meal maker when my parents were divorced n 1984, a role that became a legitimate inheritance once my mother died of cancer in March of 1992, five months before I got the table. At my table I watched my Grandma, normally a very modest eater, pack away my food and watched my Dad take as many helpings as he needed to "make stuff come out even."

At my table I shared candlelight dinners with women I dated, and loved in my way, women who helped me learn how to feel and how to risk again. Even if our relationships foundered, and they did, what we shared at this table was intimate and real. Finally, at my table I shared meals with Cary as we fell in love, and with her family once we did. At my table my soul found its way home after so many years of restless searching.

And yet, it is right that we bought our new table. It is right that I let the old table go, like certain other remnants of my past, remnants that served me well once but don't serve me well now. New is fun. New is exciting. New is what keeps us changing and growing and open to the wonders of the world. But the old is what reminds us of where we have been, who we have been. Old keeps us grounded and gives us perspective. Old is familiar and oddly "safe," even when it is something that, as I said, no longer serves us (like an addiction or a psychological defense or a career that has lost its meaning).

"I'm excited to get our new table today," Cary said as we ate breakfast this morning. I grunted out my assent to the sentiment. But what I should have said is this: "I will be, too, tomorrow. But today I need to grieve the loss of an old companion." Silly, right? It's just a thing after all. But at my table I lived, I loved, I laughed, I cried, and I gave gifts that were well received. At my table.