I once had a dream where I met myself several times. I didn’t know it was me when I had the dream. It was only after I had related the dream to a friend who had spent some of her early life working in a craft studio with a bunch of weavers who interpreted each other’s dreams every day, and she told me that: “in dreams, everything is you.”
So the dream and interpretation went something like this: I dreamt I was trying to get onto the island of writers. My friend Monique was in my dream. She pointed out to me that if I wanted to get to the island I needed to get in my truck and drive over at low tide. Low tide only 30 seconds long, and I missed it. I railed at the island: “You rich people over there, build a freaking bridge!”
I saw the people on the island as rich because they get to make a living writing - and I was so jealous that I had “missed the boat” - or at any rate, missed my chance to get to the island.
The other character that came to me in my dreams last night was my dad. He was returning after a long absence in an army uniform - just back from fighting WWII. In reality, he’s been dead for 18 years and doesn’t even make appearances in my dreams anymore. Anyway, he told me that the map he once gave me with german writing on it was worth millions - I just needed to locate it and give it to him. I searched frantically, but couldn’t find it. I think I woke myself up at this point - do you ever get caught in a dream so scary you wake yourself up to escape it? I was scared I had thrown out that old map, which apparently was written in Hitler’s handwriting. Don’t know why I would want anything from Hitler, but my dad was telling me that I had something valuable - I just needed to find it.
Dad and Monique appeared because they are the only two people in my life who have enthusiastically encouraged me to write. Monique invited me to a new writer’s group she was forming, and as a result, I’ve done more writing in the last year than I’ve ever done.
In my dad’s case, he dug a writing journal of mine out of the trash about 30 years ago and gave it back to me. I thought the writing was awful, which was why I had thrown it out. He told me it was good and I should keep it and keep writing. He was a rough guy, a hard-drinking ironworker who kept to himself except to lose his temper at little things like when I ran the hair dryer for too long. He never told me he loved me or gave me a hug. But I remember he told me (after handing me the journal from the trash) that I should write porn, there was good money in it. This was a warm moment in our relationship, and I say that with only a tiny bit of sarcasm. He saw what I desperately wanted to be, and in his own way, encouraged me to go for it. Failing at almost all facets of parenting, he got this one thing absolutely right.
But the dream interpretation where everyone is myself goes like this. I am a writer. I am yelling at myself because I’m not writing. The map from Hitler that is so valuable - that, too, is me - it’s my talent, I just have to find it and use it. Monique was me in the dream telling myself I know exactly how to get to the island, I just need to do it. Write.
So now dreams are much more interesting, now that I know I am the entire cast of characters, even the two-headed dog that appeared one time, and each character has a clue that my subconscious is trying to tell me. The two-headed dog me, I think, was saying I didn’t necessarily have to choose just one career. I just need to grow additional heads. Writer head. Teacher head. Yoga head. Entrepreneur head. I hope at least one of those heads will have better hair than what is currently on my single head. I’ve always wanted better hair.
Here’s a new twist on this, though. A few weeks ago at my yoga training, I had the pleasure of hearing the outgoing CEO of the yoga retreat speak. In the course of his talk, which told of a life so filled with questioning, learning, striving to be a better person and learn about oneself, I took four pages of notes trying to absorb some of the wisdom he seemed to possess.
One of the things he said, though, was that in life, we are given the opportunity to practice being a better person. And things will come into our lives to give us this practice until we get better at whatever that challenge is that we need to overcome. For example, we keep getting things to be angry about until we learn to deal with our anger. And then he said this:
“But then, everything and everyone we meet in this life is really ourselves. We just keep meeting ourselves.” Like he was talking about dream interpretation!
Perhaps this is accepted Buddhist or Hindu philosophy, I don’t know. I mean, the way he said it, it sounded like this idea has been out there a long time. But I’d never heard it. And I totally got it when it was applied to my dream, but to life? Wow. How was that going to work?
It works like this. Each person I meet I think that they are me. And at least to start, I am more considerate, loving, encouraging, compassionate. Because that’s how I want to be treated, right? The golden rule. I’m shy and insecure, so if I see myself in others, I want to be kind to me. But even more than that, I am wondering what lesson each of the “me’s” that shows up is trying to teach me.
It’s really fun. Try it. Start with your dreams if that’s more comfortable, but applying it to life brings a new richness.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Starting Up
Leaving behind the roles of mother, robotics teacher, maybe even writer (if I don’t have free time) I’m making my way in three days to learn a new role: yoga teacher. I’m sure that before I can teach yoga I have much to learn, and I’m not talking about yoga poses. Kripalu yoga emphasizes a gentle approach to yourself, stilling your mind, loving yourself. If I could figure out who I was I might like me.
My career is careening through possibilities. All of which I like, by the way.
Each presents it’s own problems. For example, when I teach robotics, I wonder if I’ve been out of touch with technology for too long. The programming seems to be coming back to me, but last semester, the kids had to teach me how to run a powerpoint presentation. They were astounded. You’d think I’d brought in a record player to listen to music, they thought I was so out of touch. Plus, I’m really shy. Standing up in front of those kids every day gives me some butterflies. Only because I genuinely like kids, and I think robotics is a really interesting subject can I make myself do it. Usually my enthusiasm for helping them learn and sharing my passion overcomes my shyness. Usually.
Since I didn’t teach this semester, I wrote. I took myself away from the dishwasher, the washing machine, the dog hair on the floor and the lack of plans for dinner (all of which called to me loudly as I left the house) and after dropping the kids off at school, I went to a cafe to have tea and write. Three mornings a week. Nothing I have done before has given me the joy that this has. Nothing has made me feel so sane. All those stories, all those words in my head were crowding around. First, they had a party, but then it threatened to get out of hand, and I think it was time to call in the police, or at least, some anti-anxiety meds. Not writing makes me anxious. And, conversely, writing makes me feel peaceful. And accomplished, even though some days it’s all just word count I can point to. The downside? I think I suck. I didn’t want to learn that, and I actually considered not even trying for fear of finding that out for sure. But I’m trying to tell myself that learning any new skill will take practice, and just because what I write now is insipid, doesn’t mean I won’t ever write something I could be proud of. But make a living at it? That’s doubtful, and fortunately, it’s not really the point. The point is to keep the rabble-rousers in my head out of trouble.
There’s assorted side-jobs, too. I’m a rep for Send Out Cards. I’m supposed to be selling it to other people, and get people to sign up to sell under me. I like the system, but even so, I’m not a salesperson. I should have known that, I sold for Avon and for an educational book company in the past, and both times was not comfortable. Send Out Cards was just too good to be true, a new product, easy to use, a way to make passive income. Why passive income? So I’d have time to write. I occasionally, apologetically tell someone about the cards. And that’s okay. I accept that I’m going to be really bad at this job. But I’m not giving it up, it still looks really good on paper - it’s just my execution that’s, well, killing it.
I do make some money from writing for E-How. In a flash of inspiration, I started writing some how-to articles for them about a year and a half ago. I have not written anything for them for almost a year, and yet, $20.00 a month keeps rolling into my paypal account every month. I love that! I don’t really like writing non-fiction much, but these are how-to’s - I imagine that I am helping someone, and that does inspire me. Simple things that I know how to do - like, How To Fold A Fitted Sheet. Silly. But easy for me to write, and again, the word count and number of articles made me feel like I was accomplishing something. I’d like to get back to that and give it more effort, although I know it’s really small money for a pretty big effort. But again, it’s passive income. Very attractive, because passive income is freedom.
Last but not least, I’m going off Sunday to be trained as a yoga instructor. I’ve done yoga for years, and my first teacher told me I should get trained, “You’d be good at this,” she said. But I told her I was too shy to teach. Ignoring this fact I know so well about myself, I’m hoping that once again, I can overcome the shyness to be able to help others get the gifts that yoga has given me. And to get more of it for myself. The last year and a half have been filled with self-doubt, insecurity, anxiousness as I try to find my vocation, my calling. And, as I try to figure out a way to support myself and my family. My husband’s been out of work two years now. Savings are depleted. But I am not yet desperate for a job, or at least, not yet so desperate I’m willing to take something that would require hours away from my children, and something I would not enjoy. I’m hoping I’ll be able to piece together a living from teaching, cards, writing, yoga, and oh, I forgot to mention the t-shirt company I want to start. The advice I’ve been told, and what I have said to myself has been, “decide”. But I can’t. I can’t because I want to do them all. They are all my children, I want to nurture each one.
This Blog is to chronicle the ups and downs of not deciding. Perhaps in writing it, I can reflect more fully on my choices, and deciding will either get easier, or, I will, in a burst of glory, realize I can do it all. Imperfectly, perhaps, but no vocation will be left by the side of the road. Unless it throws up in the car, a sign that perhaps I should just let that one go. But so far, everyone is behaving nicely and we are proceeding slowly. Careening with caution.
My career is careening through possibilities. All of which I like, by the way.
Each presents it’s own problems. For example, when I teach robotics, I wonder if I’ve been out of touch with technology for too long. The programming seems to be coming back to me, but last semester, the kids had to teach me how to run a powerpoint presentation. They were astounded. You’d think I’d brought in a record player to listen to music, they thought I was so out of touch. Plus, I’m really shy. Standing up in front of those kids every day gives me some butterflies. Only because I genuinely like kids, and I think robotics is a really interesting subject can I make myself do it. Usually my enthusiasm for helping them learn and sharing my passion overcomes my shyness. Usually.
Since I didn’t teach this semester, I wrote. I took myself away from the dishwasher, the washing machine, the dog hair on the floor and the lack of plans for dinner (all of which called to me loudly as I left the house) and after dropping the kids off at school, I went to a cafe to have tea and write. Three mornings a week. Nothing I have done before has given me the joy that this has. Nothing has made me feel so sane. All those stories, all those words in my head were crowding around. First, they had a party, but then it threatened to get out of hand, and I think it was time to call in the police, or at least, some anti-anxiety meds. Not writing makes me anxious. And, conversely, writing makes me feel peaceful. And accomplished, even though some days it’s all just word count I can point to. The downside? I think I suck. I didn’t want to learn that, and I actually considered not even trying for fear of finding that out for sure. But I’m trying to tell myself that learning any new skill will take practice, and just because what I write now is insipid, doesn’t mean I won’t ever write something I could be proud of. But make a living at it? That’s doubtful, and fortunately, it’s not really the point. The point is to keep the rabble-rousers in my head out of trouble.
There’s assorted side-jobs, too. I’m a rep for Send Out Cards. I’m supposed to be selling it to other people, and get people to sign up to sell under me. I like the system, but even so, I’m not a salesperson. I should have known that, I sold for Avon and for an educational book company in the past, and both times was not comfortable. Send Out Cards was just too good to be true, a new product, easy to use, a way to make passive income. Why passive income? So I’d have time to write. I occasionally, apologetically tell someone about the cards. And that’s okay. I accept that I’m going to be really bad at this job. But I’m not giving it up, it still looks really good on paper - it’s just my execution that’s, well, killing it.
I do make some money from writing for E-How. In a flash of inspiration, I started writing some how-to articles for them about a year and a half ago. I have not written anything for them for almost a year, and yet, $20.00 a month keeps rolling into my paypal account every month. I love that! I don’t really like writing non-fiction much, but these are how-to’s - I imagine that I am helping someone, and that does inspire me. Simple things that I know how to do - like, How To Fold A Fitted Sheet. Silly. But easy for me to write, and again, the word count and number of articles made me feel like I was accomplishing something. I’d like to get back to that and give it more effort, although I know it’s really small money for a pretty big effort. But again, it’s passive income. Very attractive, because passive income is freedom.
Last but not least, I’m going off Sunday to be trained as a yoga instructor. I’ve done yoga for years, and my first teacher told me I should get trained, “You’d be good at this,” she said. But I told her I was too shy to teach. Ignoring this fact I know so well about myself, I’m hoping that once again, I can overcome the shyness to be able to help others get the gifts that yoga has given me. And to get more of it for myself. The last year and a half have been filled with self-doubt, insecurity, anxiousness as I try to find my vocation, my calling. And, as I try to figure out a way to support myself and my family. My husband’s been out of work two years now. Savings are depleted. But I am not yet desperate for a job, or at least, not yet so desperate I’m willing to take something that would require hours away from my children, and something I would not enjoy. I’m hoping I’ll be able to piece together a living from teaching, cards, writing, yoga, and oh, I forgot to mention the t-shirt company I want to start. The advice I’ve been told, and what I have said to myself has been, “decide”. But I can’t. I can’t because I want to do them all. They are all my children, I want to nurture each one.
This Blog is to chronicle the ups and downs of not deciding. Perhaps in writing it, I can reflect more fully on my choices, and deciding will either get easier, or, I will, in a burst of glory, realize I can do it all. Imperfectly, perhaps, but no vocation will be left by the side of the road. Unless it throws up in the car, a sign that perhaps I should just let that one go. But so far, everyone is behaving nicely and we are proceeding slowly. Careening with caution.
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