Tag Archives: radical self care!

the radical act of putting our oxygen mask on first

In my community, a lot of folks are talking about radical self care – not just self care, but radical self care. But what makes taking a vacation or a bubble bath or watching Pretty in Pink or your favorite guilty pleasure movies with a pint of chocolate Coconut Dream and a package of gluten-free chocolate chip cookies radical?

I think you have an idea why. I think your deep heart knows. Your deep heart isn’t the questioning your real need for a break. It’s the other voices questioning you– the inner critic, the internalized perpetrator, your inner radical activist wanting to know how you can possibly justify an hour for a walk around the lake at the heart of your town or – holy shit – several days’ vacation when the revolution is nowhere near at hand and people are starving and beaten and suffering while you decide you’re just gonna take a little down time. Really? Who do you think you are? ask all the voices in unison.

Writing has been the place where I learned the power of a regular self care practice. I’ve had few other consistent self-care practices, save going for long walks. Writing has been my meditation, my grounding, my chance to be more fully in my skin for at least 15-30 minutes a day. On the days I don’t write, I am a less pleasant version of myself: cranky, crotchety, crabby – still disassembled. The days I write I find I breathe more easily. I feel more human. And still I’ve had stretches of days or weeks during which I told myself I didn’t have time to write – the voices of self-denial and abnegation are strong; they’re embedded in our very flesh.

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dancing with depletion

Good morning writers. Where I’m sitting right now, the candle’s had to work hard to penetrate the fog-chilly dark, and I’m grateful to be up early enough to meet this part of the day. Are you still lost in your dreams? Are you sitting up with me in the thin early morning light of this new day, cup of coffee warming your palms as you sit at your kitchen table, listening to the radio to find out what beauty and danger erupted in the world while you slept? I like to imagine you there. I like to imagine me there, too.

This morning I am thinking about depletion, about replenishment (again, again). I spent five days last week — four of them twelve-hour days — co-leading the AWA facilitator’s training here in Alamo, CA, and it was a delight to get to participate. I want to tell you about that joy. I want to show you the sorts of conversations I got to have with my co-trainers, with the trainees, with this community of folks who are curious about and have been shaped by the Amherst Writers & Artists workshop method and the sort of good this work can do in the world. I want to show you our long working days, our delicious meals, the lovely sound of trainee’s voices and laughter pushing up through the trees from the pool where they’d many of them gather at breaktime to cool off and deepen their connections with one another. I want to tell  you how fantastic it is to get to spend five days talking with folks about the power of supporting writers’ voices and the way that support can be a part of transforming peoples’ lives, and thereby shifting significantly the world we live in.

I want to tell you all of this. But I’m tired.

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Open letter to a newly-trained Amherst Writers & Artists (AWA) Affiliate

Hello, my friend! Welcome to the first day back in the real world. Maybe you won’t read this until this afternoon, or tomorrow. I hope that’s the case. I hope today you are sleeping late, taking care of your body, spending time with friends. I hope you haven’t had to push right back into the world of work, smartphones, data points, or commuting schedules.

It’s late morning and I, as one of your trainers, am still outside my usual routine. I am drained, overly full of human interaction, and missing you. After five days sequestered together, today we begin to drop back into our real worlds — we begin the process of integrating what and who we found and became during the training into our other life. I use “we” deliberately here — this is true for the trainers, too; we are changed through our interactions with you, the conversations and questions, the opportunities and invitations to examine our certainties, our points of view, and open just a little bit more deeply into this AWA method that threads itself through our hearts.

We spent five days — four of them nearly morning til after dark — discussing this writing group method that Pat Schneider developed, the one that each of us had already fallen in love with, that had already held most of us as writers, and opened a space for our own new and risky writing. You wanted to learn about holding that sort of space as a facilitator. This weekend we talked history and philosophy, craft and oppression, trauma and voice, poetry and creation. We experienced what is still a revolutionary idea: that it’s possible to invite and even teach writing outside of that traditional MFA/Iowa Workshop model, that good and powerful writing can emerge outside the mindset of competition and ruthless criticism. We talked about and then practice this method that has such a simple structure: Continue reading

taking breaks and being selfish

Good morning this beautiful morning — how is the sun singing to you this morning? How are you letting yourself into the sky’s day?

I am back to this blog writing after a bit of a vacation — I’m sorry for the long absence. I went back east for about a week, and got to nestle and swim in the New England summer. During vacation I read a lot, swam in the Pacific, visited with friends and family, sunbathed, walked in the rain — I wrote, too, though not on the computer.

I don’t like to spend much time on the computer while I’m on vacation; I take myself offline, and though I keep my phone close at hand so I can take pictures, I avoid email and my social networking apps. Being away from the (perceived) demands of social media allows me to take a real break, to slow down, to pay a different kind of attention. I feel less scattered when I’m offline — though it can take a day or so for the quality of my awareness to recalibrate from easily distractable and multi-task-oriented toward something more focused and yet with a wider peripheral vision. I begin to walk more slowly. I turn away from the screens, letting my eyes open back to the real world that surrounds me.

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your own private retreat

Good morning to you, and happy June! It’s grey and coolish out my window this morning; a little respite from the heat we’ve been enjoying here in Oakland. How is this Monday morning meeting you?

Happy LGBT Pride Month, my friends. No matter your sexual orientation, you can participate in honoring those queer folks who have struggled and fought back against the forces of fear, oppression and normalization, helping to create a world in which we have far greater freedom around eros, desire, gender expression and family structure. Of course we still have a long way to go — just because we celebrate Pride doesn’t mean that the struggle is over. But I’m still going to invite you to bring a little (more) queer into your life this month. What would that look like?

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give yourself some slow

Good morning – it’s slow here where I am, slow in my belly and bones, slow in the opening eyes, slow in the water boiling, slow in the release of night to sun. It’s Friday, when things should be moving toward break and weekend, but not for the self-employed. Where do you find breaktime? How does Friday slow itself to greet you? Are you rushing headlong into this day, just ready to just get it over with?

This week I am thinking a lot about workaholism and stress, I am thinking about the cultural messages I get as an American to work harder work harder — if you’re tired or anxious or there’s too much to do: work harder. Don’t stop. Push through the tired. Yes, you’re overwhelmed — just keep working. You can get through it. I am thinking about how I have internalized these messages: just keep going, Jen. You can do this. Don’t stop. You just gotta power through.

And how, when I’m overwhelmed, those sorts of messages just drive me right into shutdown. Everything in me slows down, whether I want it to or not. It’s as though my body knows something it doesn’t want to tell me. Or, no, wait: my body  is telling me all the time: more and more and faster and faster isn’t better. Working harder isn’t the way to get more done. Working slower is.

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more introvert love

After getting back from Chicago a couple of weeks ago, I had to take some time to re-settle into my skin. As much as I love being at conferences, meeting and getting to write with new people, it’s also a challenge for me as an introvert – spending a lot of time with other people drains my energy. I want a better word than that – because it sounds as though that means that being with other people was a wholly negative thing, and that’s not the case: just because I’m introverted doesn’t mean that I don’t like and need to be with other people sometimes! But what it does mean is that my energy stores are not fed by spending time with other people, as is the case with extroverts. After a lot of social time, I tend to need time alone to replenish my energy stores, to get back into some kind of deep connect with all the different parts of me.

 Our US culture tends to privilege extroverted qualities: we like gregariousness, friendliness, folks who are comfortable in a crowd –  we like people who make decisions and act, who are outgoing, who appear fearless. Introverts are also often called ‘loners,’ and loners are consistently miscast as isolated, deviant, brooding and mentally ill (and, of course, mentally ill is generally offered up as a negative characteristic, despite the fact that many, many, many of us struggle with depression, PTSD, anxiety, and other neurobiological and psychological processes that keep us away from a whole-bodied and comfortable engagement with everyday life). Most folks who have committed crimes of public terrorism are referred to by the press as loners. The loner isn’t trusted: ours is a pack-based society. Who wouldn’t want to run with the crowd?

 I read a great book many years ago called Party of One: The Loners’ Manifesto – I found this book toward the end of my first marriage, when I was trying to understand why I wanted to be alone all the time. Maybe it wasn’t just the depression, or the trauma aftermath. Maybe there was something else going on for me, too. I used to describe myself as having ‘people overload’ when I spent too much time with others, either in large or small groups or even just too much time with one other person: I would get cranky, short-tempered, and feel physically out of sorts; my skin would feel like it wasn’t hanging quite right on my body. What I often did to ‘right’ myself again was to write – which meant, of course, that I’d be alone for a period of time, just me and the notebook and the cup of coffee. I would have time alone driving to and from the coffee shop, and during that couple of hours of transit and writing practice, I would begin to feel my whole self emerging back into my skin again.

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introvert self care

Good Tuesday morning to you — how is the air circling itself around your body this morning? How is the weather in your lungs? How is the breath of your eyes?

This morning I am sleepy. Yesterday I was sleepy. I started writing yesterday’s blog post, wanted to talk about sleep deprivation and radical self care — you may have noticed that I didn’t finish that post. Instead, I took myself offline for the day.

After a week of being on, extending and expending energy, connecting with people, talking, workshopping, promoting; after getting up early for this blogging and then staying up late for online workshop processing or workshops or meetings or get-togethers with friends, yesterday I hit a place of solid depletion.

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dance (r)evolution

Good morning good morning. I just spent about forty minutes in the notebook, drafting out my addition to this Saturday’s Fierce Hunger reading, and now I get to be here in the blog with you. That’s a good morning’s writing. How are the words arriving for you today? On the page? Via the radio? In the mouth of your heart?

I’ve been working on the schedule and lineup for Saturday (when I’m not editing our amazing chapbook!) — here’s the basic schedule:

6:00-7:15       Mingle & Silent Auction (music by DJs Zanne & Junkyard)

7:15-9:15       Reading & Raffle & Celebration

9:15-10:30    Dance dance evolution (more with Zanne & Junkyard!)

So, first you get to hang out with amazing folks and check out the silent auction items and enjoy some wine and/or appetizers. Then you get to listen to some powerhouse readers, after I tell you a smidge about how grateful I am to everyone who’s supported Writing Ourselves Whole over these last ten years. Next we announce the raffle and silent auction winners. And then you get to dance it all out. Continue reading

finding our replenishment

Good morning! The sky here is just now burning from light blue to bright around the eastern horizon — I’ve got my tea and candle, the quiet music and the slightly louder music of rush hour traffic out front. The puppy has her nose pressed against the material of her new bed, so that every time she exhales she sounds as though she has a cold with bad congestion.

In less than a week (the day after Fierce Hunger), I will be forty-one. Outside one of the returned sparrows (maybe) is trilling its good morning into the branches of the live oak tree. Inside the puppy comes to say hello to me and wriggles herself around and around and around with the joy of hands on her skin and fur. Outside a crow is craning its song into the high new sky, over the crowd of car noise and trainsong, well beneath the hymn of the airplane. This morning I am thinking about loneliness and solitude, and how one can have everything or nothing to do with the other. This morning I am alone but have no loneliness in my bones; I am breathing connection and friendship, grateful for these hours without company so that the introvert in me can breath her full and necessary skin out into the room unobserved. This morning I can love you best because you are not right here with me — I can hold all I know of who you are, hold it in my fingers, stroke each facet and nuance into the morning sunlight. I can trust that you will not disappear while I take time, separate from you, to reflect on our togetherness. Continue reading