The Source of Strength

Through the course of writing this blog (it's almost 1 year old!), there is a comment that keeps coming up, time and again. It's not one that I mind, but it's one that confuses me.

I write to inspire. I write to encourage and I write to share my story. I written about testifying in court against my mother and how I'd like to approach my own death. I've written about what it's like to skydive, what it's like to have a stroke and what it's like to have PTSD.

The comment / compliment that keeps coming up, throughout my sharing stories with you is about how strong I am.

To this compliment, I normally reply, "At the end of the day, we're a lot stronger than we think we are," and this is true, but it's not the end of the statement.

Yes, I've had a lot happen to me in my short 32 years. Yes, I've had many adventures and weathered many storms, but I don't think I'm necessarily "stronger" than anyone else. When it comes down to it, there are two options of dealing with what this world can throw at you. You can either weather it and let your story continue, or you can let it break you.

Gandhi has a nice quote about this:

Most of the time, I've chosen to weather things, seek help and try to move beyond them. I choose to not surrender. Most of the time, even through depression and Lupus, I convince myself that my story isn't going to end with the latest setback. I remind myself that my story isn't all written, yet, and that there are many shining and brilliant days awaiting me.

Maybe that, in itself, is strength - refusing to "go quietly into that good night."

But, again, I don't see myself as a "strong person." I merely see myself as a person who decided to not let the bottoming-out define me. We all have failures. We all have tragedies and mistakes and oopsies in our past, but we don't have to let them define who we are, forever.

Yes, I'm depressed and have anxiety. Yes, I grew up in an abusive home and I have health problems. But those things are merely facts about me and things that happened. They are not "me."

In the movie, Dark City, a race of aliens is searching for the existence of the human soul by swapping people's memories between different bodies. At the end of the movie, the aliens state that the soul is more than just the sum of our memories. Our past influences who we are, today and in the future, but we are more at our core than just the sum of our memories.

From what I can see, all "strength" is, really, is the ability to pick yourself up when you've stumbled along the way. And if I or any of my readers have done this, then maybe we're all strong people. We all have falling down moments, but in the world of Oriah Mountain Dreamer in her poem, The Invitation,"

"It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children."

That, I think, is real strength.

So, my lovelies, do you think that you are a strong person? Why or why not? Are you willing to own your strength? Tell me about it.

Until next time,

Love to All My Relations,

-Bri

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This is Water: Changing How We Think

This week, I found this wonderfully amazing video. Before I go on to my thoughts on this subject, please watch it.

Wow! I don't know about you, but that was one of the most amazing videos I've seen, this year.

As much as I try to live my life outside of what people call, "the daily grind," sometimes it sneaks in. Sometimes I do have to go someplace during rush hour in a big city. Sometimes I do need food at peak grocery store hours. Sometimes, life's little annoyances happen to me, too.

And, as much as I try, sometimes I forget my goal. I go into a grocery store in my hometown and see the little brother of an ex-boyfriend. I'm sure he doesn't know why my body posture goes stiff when I see him. I'm sure he doesn't understand why I have to strain for polite words. But his eyes, the eyes that his brother also has, reminds me of a time of great emotional pain.

It is times like these that I remember that I am still struggling with keeping myself grounded, that I am still (despite all my inner work) having a hard time forgiving and that I am not a 100% enlightened being, yet. Still, I do try. In the parking lot, sitting in The Visionary Van, I try to calm my heart rate. I try to find that wise portion of myself which is capable of distancing itself from the memory this boy invoked. I try to feel what it would be like to extend to him, to his family, to even his brother the handshake of friendship and shared experience that I try to offer all of humanity.

My art, my writing, my creativity, my inner emotional and spiritual work. These things are not separate. They are all intrinsically linked to each other. Back before my loads of inner emotional and spiritual work, my art was about pain and longing. It connected with people on an emotional level of shared sadness and suffering. I even received some minor notoriety for it, publishing 3 books and having 1 art showing.

As I began to change and heal, my art and writing began to change. I began to see how we can connect with each other through the shared experience of beauty, joy and (the most basic heart response) love. I began to put my lifelong quest for modes of healing into my writing, into this blog, into seeking out others who are shining out the same light I am.

I know I am not alone in this journey. I know that there are a million souls out there on this planet and beyond that are seeking a connection with each other. We are seeking something more than what we've been shown. We are looking out into the night sky and deep into the eyes of our neighbor, asking each the same question, "Is there anyone that feels like I do?"

Well, I can tell you, my lovelies - YES! There are millions of us out here. You are not alone!

When we change the way we think, when we change the way we view our own world, our lives begin to change. Nights that were once spent alone and terrified of our aching need to be loved are replaced with nights where we are alone and comfortable in our solitude because we know that we are never, ever really "alone." No matter what we have gone through or what we desire to create, another soul in this vast place has felt and desired the same thing.

No matter where you are in your journey, just keep remembering that what you look for, you will find. Just keep reminding yourself to be kind, to seek your truth, to be as creative and joyful and peaceful as you can. We will meet, one day. Of that, I am certain. And, oh do I look forward to that meeting. I can't wait to see your eyes as you see that, yes, I am a real person and, no, you aren't really alone.

Choose what you desire your life to be and seek to make it so. Remember - this is water!


Until next time, my lovelies, please remember that we are all visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel.

Love to All,

-Bri

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In a Bad Funk

Today, I'm in a funk. My body doesn't feel right. My head isn't clear. In general, things suck.

Even I have days like this.

I'm in the grocery store at 10 o'clock at night, staring into the frozen food cases. My shoulders are slouched. My hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. I don't have on any socks or makeup and I'm wearing pajama pants. Through the frost-coated glass doors, I'm trying to figure out what flavor of ice cream contains the secret to getting my happy back.

I know this won't work, but everything else I've tried has failed.

It's snowing out. There are clouds from horizon to horizon, so there's no sun to bathe in. When I get home, I know that hubby and the kids have bathed, so sitting down in the shower and letting hot water run over me? Not going to happen.

Cookie Dough? Pistachio? Strawberry? Super-Fudgy-Chunk?

I stare at the rainbow of little pint containers. Finally, I select one I haven't tried before. "Maybe it's just that I've not tried ALL the flavors, yet," I think to myself.

Again, I know this isn't true, but I'm grasping at straws.

As I'm walking to the checkout line, it hits me. Potato chips. I want salt. I bypass the checkout line and stroll down the aisle with different colored mylar bags just winking at me in the florescent light. "Why do stores keep putting florescent lights in? Don't they know that it just makes people feel worse?" I think.

I select a bag of popcorn instead of the chips and I think, "These are healthier . . . I think." The bag is black and I remember how a cashier once, about 4 months ago, who told me that she didn't feel any smarter after eating the bag of corn, despite what the company who made it was called. Some cynical remark about the cashier's intelligence that I don't mean skitters across my brain like a beetle.

Then a song so depressing comes on the PA that it feels like the world is just conspiring with my funk to keep my shoulders slouched.

 
At home, I sit with a spoon, watching some comedian's special on my television for the 20th time. I know the jokes. I'm not laughing, anymore. But, somehow, the familiar voice cadence of a routine that I know by heart makes me less agitated. I love the lilts of the comedian's voice. I love the little laughs and sidetracks that happen in the moment.

I spoon the ice cream in my mouth. Then, when I'm done, I mute the television. I pull out my laptop and I write, "Today, I'm in a funk."

I can't change the fact that I'm in this strange funk that nothing seems to be able to penetrate, so I try to do something with it. I put it down on the page. In words or art, I put it down. I try to get it out of me so that it doesn't stay and wreck the next couple of days.

I think back to what may be the root of my malaise. Is it the fact that there hasn't been sun in a couple of days 'cause it's winter in Indiana? Did I do too much at that television interview and now, with my Lupus, I'm paying the price for it? Did I miscalculate my spoons? Did the nightmares that I woke screaming from cause me not to get enough good sleep, again?

It's pointless to try and figure it out. It may be one, all, or none of those reasons and knowing doesn't help me, at all. So I write. And I write. And I write some more. I pour it out on the page.

That's what I do when things are crap and nothing seems to make them better. I watch television. I eat ice cream. I take my pills and I type on my computer. I read books. I play with Pookie while sitting in bed. Maybe it's just my body trying to tell me that I need this cave time - that I need to hunker down and just not be as many things to people as I usually am. Or maybe this is just another one of those things that come with having Lupus.

So I try to get by with my ice cream and comedy specials. And maybe tomorrow I'll feel better. Maybe tomorrow the clouds will break and the wind will quit blowing stinging snow in my face and I can get out and take a walk. Maybe I'll go into a store and not hear depressing songs in minor chords. And maybe there could be Alfredo for dinner. Tomorrow. All tomorrow.

Today, it's time to be honest. It's time to write. Today, there's the truth of everything and the power of being authentic - of not pretending that everything is okay.

Today, I'm in a bad funk and I can't figure a way out.