Last night I went to a popular ballroom dance studio at the suggestion of friends thinking it was a good venue to meet men. I've tried so many a thing and have discovered almost unanimously that the singles events and meeting opportunities are devoid of men. And last night, the universe quite blatantly told me to give up on an intentful search.
Because there were no men, we were instructed to pretend as if a man were poised before us, New York Style, I thought. So my left arm was stretched out perpendicular to my torso, my left hand tilted upward and cupping the imaginary male bicep, as we were so instructed. My right arm was extended at a right angle, breaking at the elbow, so I could meet an imaginary forearm and an imaginary palm against my own. I merengued to the left this way and then mergengued to the right. I then gestured with my arm above my head to be twirled by my imaginary man. And as if it weren't already an absurd enough situation, we had to twirl our imaginary man counterclockwise!
I wanted to be twirled into another time, is what I wanted. Spun right out of New York's soiled bed of male entitlement, and spun into a time when women were pursued as a priority. New York men have the luxury of living as independently as they please while casually dating to no quantifiable end, because the male to female ratio is in their favor. In New York City, there are apparently 79 single men for every 100 women and a total of 211,000 more women than men. This census does not account for either sexual orientation or desirability, so you do the math. Either way, it's not good news.
Men don't really pursue women anymore. Simply put, men don't ask women for their phone numbers. A dating coach I recently spoke with said that it is, as required by the times we live in, my responsibility to take a man's number. Not even my responsibility to give him my number without him asking, but for me to ask him for his number. The coach explained that I should take his number, but then pretend that I wasn't going to use it. If I were in a position where I had to ask a guy for his number, because he was too aloof or emasculated to ask me for mine, why would I be so thrilled about getting his number???
But this is the state of the non-union in New York, as I report it truthfully, from my own experience, shocked and bewildered at every attempt to make a difference in my personal life. How 'bout I let you in on this? I got the imaginary number of my imaginary salsa partner last night, and I'm pretending not to call it right now.
Written August 24th, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Shadow at The Bow
It’s been six months since my last blog entry. I was disturbed while reviewing the two happy-go-lucky entries. I’ve fallen so far off the optimism map since then that I hardly resemble that fair-weather blogger. Since then, there was some family tumult, a cold and windy vacation in the Bahamas with an anti-Semitic self-proclaimed wench, a job change, and the thrill of the arrival of my second niece. I also became delighted and disappointed three times at the prospects of three different men and then had a landmark birthday. The one that science demands I get smart about if I want to have children. I was pretty numb about it going into May, my birthday month. I managed to psychically anesthetize myself in the weeks leading up to and around my birthday without employing any artificial factors. A thorough study would reveal that I unconsciously sustained a measured level of distraction in spite of the impending calendar fact. But like any successful anesthetic, there is an inevitable recovery period out of its imposed sleep and into awakening. I can’t tell now if I’m awake with some disillusionment to reconcile, or if disillusionment is my new reality and the thing to awaken to. Yes, a very different blogger from the New Year’s blogger.
Disillusionment: The condition or fact of being disenchanted. The haze-inducing questions are such: Will it be a fleeting condition or a fact? How can I make the past not matter? How do I wholeheartedly believe in the possibility, the mere chance, that I’ll meet the right man in time to consider starting a family? Is this last lap the lap where my self-awareness suddenly accelerates so exponentially that it all comes together, inversely diminishing foibles of the past as if they were essential to the winning equation, or is this last lap plainly the last lap of my flailing between faith and the futility of faith until I enter my next decade without a life partner?
I want ample time to enjoy the relationship I’ve prepared for my whole confounding dating life. I realized recently that it’s possible that I’ve never been in front of, literally geographically situated in front of, an appropriate man (age appropriate, attractive and solvent) who is looking for a relationship. I’ve dated men with varying permutations of notable characteristics, but who were not intentionally trying to create something long-lasting with a woman. It seems that just when I was getting a grip on a new holistic and self-loving vernacular, my birthday came imminently closer like an iceberg encroaching on a leak ridden ship, and my shadow, the one I’d painstakingly suppressed, stepped up to the bow.
And my shadow has been steering since. I still consult the same books and happy-talking cds, move through my favorite yoga poses, schedule new activities, enjoy long walks and outings with friends and family. But there is no distraction now, no attempted repose, that sufficiently quiets a low-boiling trepidation about the possibility of moving through these next few years alone. I have friends who encourage me to write the comic strips I used to produce mocking my dating experiences, but I don’t find any of it so funny anymore. I’m authentically sober. I don’t mean dull or without a willingness to be light given an opportunity to gest, but overall, at this pivotal juncture, the absurdities in the name of unrequited love don’t seem like laughing matters.
Sober may sound grim, sometimes insinuates a monasticism, but really it’s not. I’m grown-up is really what I am. Among other logistical shifts, I now support myself entirely, no bones from the folks. I know, a rite of passage long overdue. I now calibrate all of my energy to make the best use of my time and my money. Maybe my perceived shadow is actually a new developmental layer of maturity I haven’t experienced before, the kind that prompts me to make better and informed decisions, and peer through a new lens. Maybe, at long last, maturity is now steering the ship.
Written July 27, 2010
Disillusionment: The condition or fact of being disenchanted. The haze-inducing questions are such: Will it be a fleeting condition or a fact? How can I make the past not matter? How do I wholeheartedly believe in the possibility, the mere chance, that I’ll meet the right man in time to consider starting a family? Is this last lap the lap where my self-awareness suddenly accelerates so exponentially that it all comes together, inversely diminishing foibles of the past as if they were essential to the winning equation, or is this last lap plainly the last lap of my flailing between faith and the futility of faith until I enter my next decade without a life partner?
I want ample time to enjoy the relationship I’ve prepared for my whole confounding dating life. I realized recently that it’s possible that I’ve never been in front of, literally geographically situated in front of, an appropriate man (age appropriate, attractive and solvent) who is looking for a relationship. I’ve dated men with varying permutations of notable characteristics, but who were not intentionally trying to create something long-lasting with a woman. It seems that just when I was getting a grip on a new holistic and self-loving vernacular, my birthday came imminently closer like an iceberg encroaching on a leak ridden ship, and my shadow, the one I’d painstakingly suppressed, stepped up to the bow.
And my shadow has been steering since. I still consult the same books and happy-talking cds, move through my favorite yoga poses, schedule new activities, enjoy long walks and outings with friends and family. But there is no distraction now, no attempted repose, that sufficiently quiets a low-boiling trepidation about the possibility of moving through these next few years alone. I have friends who encourage me to write the comic strips I used to produce mocking my dating experiences, but I don’t find any of it so funny anymore. I’m authentically sober. I don’t mean dull or without a willingness to be light given an opportunity to gest, but overall, at this pivotal juncture, the absurdities in the name of unrequited love don’t seem like laughing matters.
Sober may sound grim, sometimes insinuates a monasticism, but really it’s not. I’m grown-up is really what I am. Among other logistical shifts, I now support myself entirely, no bones from the folks. I know, a rite of passage long overdue. I now calibrate all of my energy to make the best use of my time and my money. Maybe my perceived shadow is actually a new developmental layer of maturity I haven’t experienced before, the kind that prompts me to make better and informed decisions, and peer through a new lens. Maybe, at long last, maturity is now steering the ship.
Written July 27, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
I Met Deepak Chopra...
A week ago, I encountered Deepak Chopra. I was feeling especially alive on that day, with an especially spirited spring in my step on my way to meditate at his center in New York. I've been going to the center for five years now and have never met him. On this day, I felt as if I trusted the universe with all the faith in my cynically-stripped bones. I had been experiencing (and continue to experience) synchronicities affirming that I am exactly where I am supposed to be in support of my ultimate destination. On my way to the Chopra Center, I articulated to a friend how grateful I was for how accessible the center was to me and POOF! DEEPAK CHOPRA! There he was, in the stairwell with his tea and a smile! I caught his eye as he looked back over his peace-carrying shoulder and said hello nonchalantly, and then I asked him if I could make a more official hello, supplicating that I might experience his energy for longer than a fleeting salutation, even though it's mid-town in New York. He obliged graciously and asked me my name, what brings me to the center, and how often I visit. I gave him a very brief character sketch of myself as a creative person looking to create more passion and peace in my life. He embraced me warmly with an emphatic hug, and although he seemed open to a bigger conversation, I felt too humble to make that assumption and scurried off to my meditative corner in the sanctuary across from his office. Upon getting situated on my cushion, I began to frantically do the very opposite of meditate. I began texting everyone I knew who would care and understand, that I had just been in engaged in an embrace with Deepak Chopra.
After texting about four friends, noting the audibly subtle, syncopated and potentially sacriligious pulses I was making on my blackberry in the space relegated for silence, I decided to get quiet. I started thinking the following thoughts: "That wasn't enough. I need more of Deepak. If I share with him, Deeeeepak, my quest for clarity, will it more suddenly be realized in my life? Won't my mere communications with him make all the difference?" And then, gratefully the following came to me: "He is a man, just a man. You are here, because you already know and appreciate what he might suggest. He can't help you put it into practice, YOUR practice. He is not YOUR heart or YOUR mind. He can only stand as a representation of what is possible with the meditative practice." I was able to get to this place in my mind, but my body would not follow. I had ants in my peace-seeking-pants. It wasn't but a few minutes that I decided to collect my things and leave the center. I felt lucky and exuberant and wanted to move around to honor this.
Only a week later and I've been through what seems a dozen full-circles of contradicting thoughts around my life plans. The most imminent knowing I've arrived at since that walk on my way to the center when I was gratitude personified is that I am a singer. When I sing, and incidentally in alignment with what I choose to sing, I experience my most heartfelt meditative expressions.
In my performances I ask people to be still with me for a moment while we explore a lyric and a melody and its interpretations. And while I'm the focus and the vessel superficially, I do authentically and insistently intend for people to experience their own journeys while listening. THIS, feels purposeful and powerful to me, no matter how many or how few people I connect with in my musical career, this feeling is quite real to me. The day-gigs or side-gigs or giggawatts are the support I gratefully endure to get to the place where I am with my voice and my friends.
Written January 15, 2010
After texting about four friends, noting the audibly subtle, syncopated and potentially sacriligious pulses I was making on my blackberry in the space relegated for silence, I decided to get quiet. I started thinking the following thoughts: "That wasn't enough. I need more of Deepak. If I share with him, Deeeeepak, my quest for clarity, will it more suddenly be realized in my life? Won't my mere communications with him make all the difference?" And then, gratefully the following came to me: "He is a man, just a man. You are here, because you already know and appreciate what he might suggest. He can't help you put it into practice, YOUR practice. He is not YOUR heart or YOUR mind. He can only stand as a representation of what is possible with the meditative practice." I was able to get to this place in my mind, but my body would not follow. I had ants in my peace-seeking-pants. It wasn't but a few minutes that I decided to collect my things and leave the center. I felt lucky and exuberant and wanted to move around to honor this.
Only a week later and I've been through what seems a dozen full-circles of contradicting thoughts around my life plans. The most imminent knowing I've arrived at since that walk on my way to the center when I was gratitude personified is that I am a singer. When I sing, and incidentally in alignment with what I choose to sing, I experience my most heartfelt meditative expressions.
In my performances I ask people to be still with me for a moment while we explore a lyric and a melody and its interpretations. And while I'm the focus and the vessel superficially, I do authentically and insistently intend for people to experience their own journeys while listening. THIS, feels purposeful and powerful to me, no matter how many or how few people I connect with in my musical career, this feeling is quite real to me. The day-gigs or side-gigs or giggawatts are the support I gratefully endure to get to the place where I am with my voice and my friends.
Written January 15, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
Welcome to My Blog, My Journey Online
Hello! Happy 2010!
My name is Michelle. This is my blog, part of my blourney, a journey of self-discovery online, with you, my cyber-witnesses.
I've called the blog "Lake and Maple: A Journey from Non-Judgment to Joy," a tribute to the poem by Jane Hirshfield, which has inspired a heartfelt shift in my thinking. The poem is about accepting all without judgment, the good, the bad, and even the beautiful disappointments, the things that create the pits in your stomach, mere reminders of your desire for growth, glorious desire and glorious growth. How lucky are we that desire and growth are our privilege on this planet? I've posted the poem at the end of this entry.
Intermittently, I will insert a poem on the blog or quote an author. I am often inspired by great poems, song lyrics, writers' or creators' passages and love to share them.
This blog is a tool for the acknowledgment and articulation of what I have, what I am and what I'm always becoming. I'm kicking off the new year with some old friends, family, some new friends and a new home that I absolutely cherish. It feels like the first real home in my adult life, actually, and so essentially holds me, warmly, allowing me in its intentful design, years in the making, while purging and propping what stops me and what soothes me, to inevitably wish and dream. And in the manifestation of this place, this heart-center and home-base, I know I've learned some big lessons on the importance of self-care and self-love, the underlying foundation for any great dream.
The dreams for 2010 are big -- a show at the Metropolitan Room, more body awareness through yoga and dance, more writing, more reading, work on a life design that is optimally autonomous, and, of course, love, true love, the pursuit of my life partner. I'd rather call it "the welcoming" of my life partner, a more organic experience honoring all my inspired movements in what's curious to me, the way I'd like to achieve all things in general. "Pursuit" is such an American concept and I feel it triggers a toxic idea application for me -- a blogsubject for another blogtime. Incidentally, I'm passionate about language, and am in the on-going process of researching and defining the language that supports me. Importantly, I feel I've made some real strides in recent weeks in my understanding of healthy intimacy and look forward to my commitment to these findings and the beauty they could reap.
Thank you for following my blog. I hope it helps you get to know me a little better as I get to know myself, and in kind, helps you to discover yourself as well. And do let friends know about the blog if you think I've articulated something that could support them. Now....Lake and Maple...
With Love, Hope and Patience,
Michelle
Lake and Maple by Jane Hirshfield
I want to give myself
utterly
as this maple
that burned and burned
for three days without stinting
and then in two more
dropped off every leaf;
as this lake that,
no matter what comes
to its green-blue depths,
both takes and returns it.
In the still heart that refuses nothing,
the world is twice-born --
two earths wheeling,
two heavens,
two egrets reaching
down into subtraction;
even the fish
for an instant doubled,
before it is gone.
I want the fish.
I want the losing it all
when it rains and I want
the returning transparence.
I want the place
by the edge-flowers where
the shallow sand is deceptive,
where whatever
steps in must plunge,
and I want that plunging.
I want the ones
who come in secret to drink
only in early darkness,
and I want the ones
who are swallowed.
I want the way
the water sees without eyes,
hears without ears,
shivers without will or fear
at the gentlest touch.
I want the way it
accepts the cold moonlight
and lets it pass,
the way it lets
all of of it pass
without judgment or comment.
There is a lake.
Lalla Ded sang, no larger
than one seed of mustard,
that all things return to.
O heart, if you
will not, cannot, give me the lake,
then give me the song.
Written January 1, 2010
My name is Michelle. This is my blog, part of my blourney, a journey of self-discovery online, with you, my cyber-witnesses.
I've called the blog "Lake and Maple: A Journey from Non-Judgment to Joy," a tribute to the poem by Jane Hirshfield, which has inspired a heartfelt shift in my thinking. The poem is about accepting all without judgment, the good, the bad, and even the beautiful disappointments, the things that create the pits in your stomach, mere reminders of your desire for growth, glorious desire and glorious growth. How lucky are we that desire and growth are our privilege on this planet? I've posted the poem at the end of this entry.
Intermittently, I will insert a poem on the blog or quote an author. I am often inspired by great poems, song lyrics, writers' or creators' passages and love to share them.
This blog is a tool for the acknowledgment and articulation of what I have, what I am and what I'm always becoming. I'm kicking off the new year with some old friends, family, some new friends and a new home that I absolutely cherish. It feels like the first real home in my adult life, actually, and so essentially holds me, warmly, allowing me in its intentful design, years in the making, while purging and propping what stops me and what soothes me, to inevitably wish and dream. And in the manifestation of this place, this heart-center and home-base, I know I've learned some big lessons on the importance of self-care and self-love, the underlying foundation for any great dream.
The dreams for 2010 are big -- a show at the Metropolitan Room, more body awareness through yoga and dance, more writing, more reading, work on a life design that is optimally autonomous, and, of course, love, true love, the pursuit of my life partner. I'd rather call it "the welcoming" of my life partner, a more organic experience honoring all my inspired movements in what's curious to me, the way I'd like to achieve all things in general. "Pursuit" is such an American concept and I feel it triggers a toxic idea application for me -- a blogsubject for another blogtime. Incidentally, I'm passionate about language, and am in the on-going process of researching and defining the language that supports me. Importantly, I feel I've made some real strides in recent weeks in my understanding of healthy intimacy and look forward to my commitment to these findings and the beauty they could reap.
Thank you for following my blog. I hope it helps you get to know me a little better as I get to know myself, and in kind, helps you to discover yourself as well. And do let friends know about the blog if you think I've articulated something that could support them. Now....Lake and Maple...
With Love, Hope and Patience,
Michelle
Lake and Maple by Jane Hirshfield
I want to give myself
utterly
as this maple
that burned and burned
for three days without stinting
and then in two more
dropped off every leaf;
as this lake that,
no matter what comes
to its green-blue depths,
both takes and returns it.
In the still heart that refuses nothing,
the world is twice-born --
two earths wheeling,
two heavens,
two egrets reaching
down into subtraction;
even the fish
for an instant doubled,
before it is gone.
I want the fish.
I want the losing it all
when it rains and I want
the returning transparence.
I want the place
by the edge-flowers where
the shallow sand is deceptive,
where whatever
steps in must plunge,
and I want that plunging.
I want the ones
who come in secret to drink
only in early darkness,
and I want the ones
who are swallowed.
I want the way
the water sees without eyes,
hears without ears,
shivers without will or fear
at the gentlest touch.
I want the way it
accepts the cold moonlight
and lets it pass,
the way it lets
all of of it pass
without judgment or comment.
There is a lake.
Lalla Ded sang, no larger
than one seed of mustard,
that all things return to.
O heart, if you
will not, cannot, give me the lake,
then give me the song.
Written January 1, 2010
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