Category: recovery

community · compassion · gratitude · recovery · self-care · spirituality

Hold the Space

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

It’s a very good thing I don’t have to do this on my own,
that I’m connected to friends and fellowships, and to a Higher Power that can
help me to hold the space for others. Because Lord, if today is not the day of
expanding that capacity.
Already today, I have sat and listened to the chaos and pain and
sadness of several people’s lives. I have been on the phone with someone who
asked to be given the space, for me to hold
the space, for her to share her grief. And then I sat one-on-one with someone
in chaos and pain, and offered action steps, encouragement, and hope.
I’m … well, I guess I’m not exhausted, because I haven’t
been doing this on my own power. Luckily, I have enough experience to know that
I cannot hold others’ grief all by
myself, and so I’ve taken moments here and there during this morning to call
upon the inner resources of strength to help me be present – not to check out
while they’re sharing, or to be in judgment of them, or think about my opinion about what they’re saying – but to really be present and listen.
I found it hardest first thing this morning, when for an hour that was the theme, and there were a few people grounded in their chaos, feeding
on it, and looking for relief in a way that felt toxic to me. That’s always the
hardest type. A friend informed me that Eckhart Tolle (whom, by the way, I
cannot stand…but that’s a story for another day), but that he had a concept
called the “pain body,” and it goes something like, when someone wants to share
their pain in a way that they want you to get stuck in it too – that they want
you to take it on. To stand nearby to someone, just aching to share their pain
body with you.
You probably know people like that – perhaps you are even
related to them. But they don’t want you to “hold space” for them; they want
you to become mired in it with them. A misery loves company kind of thing.
It’s hard to stand on top of the quagmire of trauma and
grief and sadness and suffering, and not get sucked down by it. One thing that
helps, and which has helped me today is gratitude.
For all the drama around school and finances, and even
around my trauma recovery, I am not where those people are, just for today. For
today, I am grateful that I woke up early, got to meet my commitments, and will
head this afternoon to the chiropractor and later to meet up with a lovely
group of cityfolk.
For today, there isn’t active drama or chaos or grief in my
life. And I am hugely grateful for that. I’ve heard it said that it’s a good
thing we’re not all crazy on the same day. Sometimes people hold the space for
me when I am in it. When I’m snot-bubble
sobbing the Ugly Cries and I can’t see the end of the abyss. And people hold
the space for me to cry it out, and likely sit in compassion and gratitude
themselves.
We’re not all crazy on the same day, nor are we all grieving
on the same day.
The other thing that I’ve found helpful today as I sit and
let the grief of others dissipate from around me, is that I did my dishes. All
of them. I vacuumed my apartment. And I will eat some healthy lunch before I
head on my way. Because no matter what resources I have available to me from a
Higher Power or from my community, if I’m not taking care of my basic needs,
I’m not at all available to others.
Water, Food, Recovery, Compassion, Gratitude. It’s been a
big day, and it’s only noon. But tomorrow someone may do it for me. 
commitment · dating · faith · Jewish · recovery · self-care

Standards

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Yesterday as I was walking to catch my bus to the movies
with friends, a young man walked out of a nearby store and was walking just a few
paces next to me in the same direction. It was obvious we were going to be
going the same way for a while, so I asked him what he’d bought at the store –
it’s a little Italian food and cheese shop.
We ended up chatting and laughing a good bit on the way, and
as my bus came into sight, and he was going to continue on his way, I
introduced myself and held out my hand. He did the same, and then he asked, Do
you want to get together some time?
I smiled, and said, Actually I’m not dating right now, but
thank you. And he looked a little quizzical, but accepted it, and as we crossed
the street, I said maybe I’ll see you around. And I got on my bus, with
a grin on my face.
This young man, about my age, attractive, and I
picked up a Jewish vibe (my Jew-dar is pretty good with men). But, he was about
5 inches shorter than me. (I’m close to 6feet tall, if you didn’t know.)
I told my friend about the interaction later, and she said, “he wasn’t up to my standards, no pun intended…” But, unfortunately or not, it’s
true. I’ve tried to make good enough good enough, and it just doesn’t work for
me. I’ve tried to make almost the right fit into the right fit, but it’s like
Cinderella’s sisters’ bleeding toes. Eventually, the truth will out.
I felt glad that I was approachable and attractive. I felt
bummed that it wasn’t the right fit. But, I suppose it’s progress that I’m
approachable.
I still think about the Catholic and our incredible first
date in January – like something out of Before Sunrise.
I’ve been noticing I really do have a type, a physical type, at least. Blond and blue eyed. So, a blond blue
eyed, tall Jew. Right… But, as someone once told me, the Universe will either
fulfill your desire, or take it away. Or, as I’ve also heard, G-d has three answers: Yes, Not Now, and I have something better in mind.
For my reluctance to write this in an open forum, before I
met my last boyfriend, I felt like and said that I felt ready for “the one
before ‘The One,’” that I wasn’t quite ready for white-picket fence land, or to
be fully emotionally available – but that I was ready to try for the almost.
And believe it or not, I believe that’s exactly what
happened. It was almost right. It was in many ways also very not right. But I
got to practice being in a relationship; noticing my patterns, my alternation
between a desire to control and be approved of, and a desire to reject. I got to see that I wasn’t
a half-bad girlfriend, which was good, considering my self-esteem’s attachment to my sordid promiscuous past.
And, ultimately, I got to see that the difference between “almost” and “yes,”
though small, is also a canyon. Not easily crossed or bridged by any amount of
force or desire.
I’ve had a few approaches by “almosts” in the last six
months or so. And I’ve gotten to play the tape – the recent tape of trying with
an almost. It included tears, pain, “breaks,” coercion, frustration, despair.
(Of course, it also included joy, humor, contentment, and creativity.) It was
not enough. And so, I’ve had to practice saying no.
I’m not sure that I like using the phrase “I’m not dating
right now,” which had been true for the last few months, not being emotionally
available to date. But I feel that that’s changing. So, we’ll see. Maybe I will
get the opportunity to say Yes sometime soon.
(And, by the way, part of the reason for today’s blog is all
a ‘note to self’ about the inappropriate
dude-I-feel-like-a-13-year-old-lost-in-my-gawky-body-when-I-talk-to-you crush I
have on an blue-eyed acquaintance, who is non-jewish, short, taken, but oh so …
yummy.) 😉

art · fun · letting go · poetry · recovery · school

The Reluctant Poet

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

I had the wonderful opportunity yesterday to sit in a park
with one of my best girl friends in the SF sunshine and shade and download the
mental vomit of my thesis bananas.
She had some interesting perspective too. She said that it
seems like I’m meant to be a poet right now. That I’ve tried to hand in and do
something else, and I’m being blocked, and that perhaps, I’m supposed to write
poetry right now.
I don’t want to. I have ALL these “thoughts” and “opinions”
about “poets” and “poetry.” I can’t tell you how rankled I am at conversations
that have included the following after I reluctantly reveal what it is I study at school:
Oh, I hate poetry. (my dentist’s receptionist…)
I don’t really like poetry.
I don’t know any poetry.
What are you going to do with that?
There’s no money in that.
Uh, I don’t know anything about poetry.
I hated poetry in high school.
I think I read Walt Whitman once.
I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck. I don’t give a fuck what you think
about poetry. And, further, I ought to not give a fuck at the moment what I think about poetry.
I have some messed up ideas and beliefs about poetry. Like it’s not cool;
nobody likes it; nobody cares. Why can’t I be a painter, or a musician, or some
other “acceptable” form of artist? Why do I have to write like that?
So, yesterday before I met with my friend, I went into the
nearby indie bookstore, and I went to the poetry section – which although
toward the back, was not underlit (!). And I began to pick up titles that
interested me. I got to put some back … skip over the Walt Whitman, and … buy two I’d skimmed and thought I’d like. I bought two books of poetry.
I never buy books. Ever. (Well, unless you count the Harry
Potters, but they’re always OUT at the
library!) I therefore never buy books of poetry. I’ve had the opportunity
through school these last 2 years to read a lot of books of poetry, and buy a
lot of books of poetry. But, they’re not “for me.” They’re not ones I’ve chosen,
ones I’ve looked at and been sparked by. My hand, like Moses, was being pushed
away from the gold. And I burned my tongue — I lost my taste for it.
I’ve been so steeped in poetry, and the language of poetry,
and the analysis of poetry, and the conversations around poetry that I could
probably puke enough letters to make
poetry.
Therefore, it is not suprising that I have not been all that
enthused to reapproach the project I’d vaguely been working on. I know what I
was working on. I know that it’s raw, and honest, and revealing, and
vulnerable. I know that it talks about trauma, and I don’t really want to talk
about trauma. I know some of it is revealing of my parents’ human fallibility and I don’t want to come off as a thirty year old woman blaming her parents. 
My friend asked me what the work wants or needs right now. I said … it wants to be honored. I thought it would
be enough to write some of it out, have some folks read it in class, and shove it away as random pages in random drawers. But apparently this work wants to be held differently.
Apparently, it wants more of a laying to rest than that. That’s what the work
is. It’s an honoring of the past. Like the purpose of a funeral to provide a
space and a container for grief and letting go, this work wants to
be compiled, honored, and set to rest. Not left as it is, scattered parts
of a whole.
Which I suppose is its own metaphor.
So, I, the reluctant poet, got to read some really good,
funny, poignant, clever, honest poetry from my newly purchased book yesterday, one which I bought with my own sense of attraction and desire, not assigned, not suggested reading, not a professor’s newest book. I got to sit on that train with a slight grin, reading art with a perspective shift about my own work that I’m not completely on board with yet, but which apparently is happening anyway.
health · recovery · synchronicity

Dr Palm Reader

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

I am currently trying to convince my body that decaf coffee
is just as wonderful as regular coffee.
For anyone who knows me, or shares this wonderful love
affair with the warm caffeinated beverage, you know this a difficult task. In
fact, liquid tranquility was once how I put it – despite it’s technical
opposite affect on our bodies.
Why, then, you may ask? Is this a further foray into
asceticism or self-denial or militant straight-edgyness?
It’s because of my feet.
Well, it’s more because of my pelvis. Well, it’s more
because of my jaw. Oh wait, it’s a global
problem with my body.
True to the magnificent nature of coincidence in this
Universe, I walked into a conversation between two girl friends of mine
about two weeks ago. I forget what brought it about, but one of the women
mentioned her chiropractor. When I added in that I’ve been clenching my jaw at
night pretty severely, she handed me his card. Apparently, he’s not the pop and
crack kind, and is very holistic to all the body’s needs – which is good,
because I have never seen a chiropractor because I thought it was a racket: to
pop and crack, come back in a month, pop and crack, ad nauseum.
So, I googled, I yelped, I read all the info on the website – including his own “journey” to this angle of the profession – and then I called. Turns out, Yes, jaw problems are something that they deal
with, and I could come in in a few days.
The yelp reviews are like the gospel praise for Jesus
himself. You’d think this guy performed miracles or something.
… and, he does.
I went for my initial interview last Tuesday, and he spent an
hour telling me to stand up, sit down, raise one arm, now open your mouth raise the
other, lift this leg, turn your head and lift it again, … and then he asked a
strange question. Was your childhood stressful? HA! Yes, yes it was, Dr. Palm
Reader. and on with his gentle poking and prodding.
See, the problem is that because I clench my jaw at night,
my dentist told me about 6 months ago that I was getting micro-fractures in my
molars, and if I didn’t take care of this my teeth would fall apart in my head. That it was likely caused by stress, and that I would have to wear a
night guard… forever. So, luckily, I have a retainer thing from the
interminable period of my adult braces, and I’ve been wearing it
semi-regularly, and then more regularly, waking up in the night or morning
feeling like opening my jaw is like open the jaws of life – it’s so stiff and
tight and ouch.
So, Dr Palm Reader… actually, I’ve really come to call him
Dr. Eyeballs. … because he has the most incredible blue eyes. I’m a sucker for
them blue eyes.  – So, he says
okay, I’ll see you in two days for the “download” appointment, the one were
basically he tells me what’s wrong with me, and what we’re going to do about
it. … “and,” he says as I’m walking out, “which organs aren’t functioning properly.” Oh hell, you say
this as I’m leaving!? Which organs of
mine aren’t functioning properly? Chew, or clench, on that one!
In any case, I do come back. And on Thursday, he tells me all kinds
of stuff. Firstly, he says my adrenal gland is shot. The childhood question was
because often if there is a lot of stress in childhood, the adrenal gland is
over-active and overly called upon then, and so, in later life, it crashes.
Have I been extremely fatigued lately? Why, yes, Dr. Palm Reader, I’ve been
going to bed at 8:30 or 9pm when I can, but I thought it was just “winter,” or,
you know, what my body needs… 10 or so hours of sleep a night.
Nope. My adrenal gland is shot. Okay. What else you got?
Well, flat feet – get this – are a symptom of early stress. Perhaps it’s not “genetic,” although my mom has them too
(“Did she have a stressful childhood?,” Yes, Doc, yes she did.).
The bottom line was this, all kinds of things are out of
whack, ligaments are falling apart in my pelvis, over stressed and twisted. My
hip pain another dr. said was tendonitis and I’d just have to NOT USE IT … uh,
yeah, no, it’s these loose ligaments. The jaw? Well, (cue “the knee bone’s
connected to the thigh bone”), pretty much, it all ascends from my pelvic
problem, into my diaphragm, and into my neck, and then, into my jaw. All the
muscles are doing work they shouldn’t be doing, and are overstressed from doing
them.
… Now that you have gotten my medical history, what on earth
does this have to do with anything? Well, firstly, after he did a few pressure
pointy things, and one crack, guess what? I didn’t clench my jaw for two
nights. I never thought that would happen. Or would have guessed the relief I
felt without it. But, this is a long-term issue, and so, over the course of the
next 6 weeks, I’ll be seeing him 3 times a week, to train my body into its proper form and function. Which
also means that YAY!! I won’t have to see him forever, I won’t have to wear a night guard forever, and all different kinds of
systems in my body are going to be starting up again… and mostly, I won’t be so
fucking tired all the time.
Down side? I feel like an 80 year old woman at the moment.
I’ve been told that for the duration of the treatment, I can’t bend in x y and
z ways, …. and although he hasn’t said it… the pamphlet he gave me on what’s
“wrong” with me (which btw, has an illustration of a completely fucocked
spinal cord…), well, it states that caffeine, nicotine, alcohol and sugar
aggravate the system and inhibit healing.
Well, Balls. Caffeine and sugar are the only ones I still
use/abuse, but hell. Really?
So, this is not my swan song to coffee. I’ve had one cup of
regular and one of decaf this morning, … and I guess that tub of “no sugar
added” ice cream is gonna have to go…
But, indeed, it’s true. This is some sort of miracle. And
if there were ever a time in my life when I had the time, health insurance,
availability, and Universe conspiring for me to bring my physical, emotional, and
spiritual health into, … alignment, it’s now. 

creativity · joy · letting go · poetry · recovery · school

Say Yes.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Oh dear reader, as quickly as they flit in, they flit out.
Remember so recently my choreographing a ballet as a part of
my thesis? Well, perhaps not. Or, simply, perhaps not now.
My new thesis idea is a book of art with poems. Not novel, but
novel to me.
My dad’s voice is readily in my head, “You’re paying $100,000 for THIS?!?” Yes, Dad. Yes.
But, to address first things first, yesterday’s intro to EMDR
was much gentler than I’d anticipated, as my therapist had mentioned to me. And
we’re starting small, gathering positive resources, grounding in safe space,
assembling Team Molly, as it were. I cried only the teeniest bit, and did not
get struck by a streetcar. In fact, I cried only that bit when I was recalling
something really lovely actually. ~ I am grateful to have a woman as gentle as
she is to guide me through this. And she’s consistently reminded me that her
experience is not that patients have dramatic, radical shifts, but rather
subtle changes they may not even notice till later when they realize they’re holding
these things differently.
That said, the first thing I said to her yesterday when I arrived was that
I was terrified, but we did the groundwork anyway. Because, yes, it is time. (insert
Rafiki’s voice from Lion King here – “Eet ees
time.”)
To return to the thesis though. (First draft due Feb 15th… Insert Marisa Tomei’s stamping foot from My Cousin Vinny … lol, I could do this all day…)
On Wednesday night, I had a wonderful experience. Having
bought a copse of new, brilliant markers from Blick Art Supply store on Sunday,
I sat down and began to experiment with these new, saturated, luscious,
dripping, succulent colors. You can perhaps tell how much I enjoyed them.
I felt almost as if I were getting to finger the crevices of
the greatest gemstones of all time. Basking in their glow. Delighted at how
they caught the light, how they were able to instantaneously create something
out of nothing.
I experimented for a while. With the different points and
pressures and textures and shapes. I felt so calm and exhilarated. Like, this THIS is what it feels like to be engaged in what you
want to be doing. And moreover, it feels like finally breaching the surface of
the water after you’ve been under for too long. Relief in a way that makes you
want to cry.
After I’d done a few of these just luxuriating in the
experience of manipulating these colors and markers pages, I turned a page, and
began to write a part of a story. Portions of the words fell right off the
page, and the next line began somewhere a few words in, as if the others were being written
… invisibly, on the other side of the page, on a bigger page that got cut, or weren’t actually written at all and there aren’t any words to connect what
you’ve read.
With my markers, I wrote a few more of these partial
stories. Then I put them up on the wall in my kitchen. The drawing before I
began writing continues to arrest me when I look at it. Something about it
captures me. And it is under this one, that I’ve taped the first story piece,
both are in red.
Perhaps, this is the beginning of a book. Perhaps the image
and the story, or poem, relate.
And, perhaps as I thought about it this morning, perhaps
there are blank pages for you, reader, to write your own story. Or perhaps blank pages for you to draw above the stories. Perhaps it’s children’s book-like. Perhaps the content isn’t though. 
Maybe. Maybe
not. But I sure like the idea. The idea of collaboration, of interaction, of
experimentation, and creativity.
I’m currently reading a book by Thomas Moore called, A
Life At Work: The Joy of Discovering What You Were Meant to Do. And as I also look at some of the work I’d done
in response to What Color is Your Parachute, I am faced again with the notion that my work
demands to be integrative, collaborative, fun.
This new idea, whatever comes of it, is part of this
discovery process. It’s part of the milemarkers on my path to my path. (And, I
will tell you, Thomas Moore agrees with me about not needing to “CHOOSE ONE” life path.) ;P
I’m going to play with this new idea. A little more
implementable than the dance. We’ll see
what happens. I may stick with all the work I’ve got and “Make it work,” or
I’ll head here for now, and “Follow the fun.”

courage · fear · recovery

Light Dispels Dark

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Methinks I may need to reread the Lighten Up! blog again
before I head out this morning, or at least take heart the theme.
Today, I will be beginning a process called EMDR (eye
movement desensitization and reprocessing) with my therapist in San Francisco.
It’s a therapy that is used to reintegrate and desensitize traumatic memories
by stimulating both sides of the body, either with eye moment, as the name
suggests, or tapping on both knees with your hands, or little alternating vibrations in each hand in order to help store those charged memories back in a way which more resembles the way we hold non-traumatic memories. 
Perhaps you can imagine, I’m a little … freaked out, is the
“lightest” word I can use at the moment.
I have resisted her suggestion to do this for several years.
But, it seems, and in fact is, time to
do this. I’m terrified. I terrified I’m going to hysterically cry and leave her
office a mess and get struck by a street car in my haze. I’m terrified I’m going to find
out things that I really don’t want to know. I’m terrified, mainly, and most
likely, that I will cry, a lot, and then I’ll be walking around for two weeks
til our next session with all of this “up” stuff.
To be true, though, a lot of the work I think we’ll do today
is actually about grounding in some positive resources. i.e. if we’re going to
talk about the most disturbing memories, we’re today supposed to talk about the
most positive and joyous memories. In fact, I was supposed to write them down,
but have felt like even that was too big a step toward “the final product.” So,
I’ll head into the city shortly and sit at a café and write my 10 best
memories.
There was the option to also write the 10 most disturbing,
and when she saw my trepidation (and terror), she said there’s always the option we
can do it in her office together, and so we will. I’m relieved for that.
As a blog, I feel that there’s some responsibility to care-take your feelings, reader, and let you know, don’t worry, it’s all okay, this
is all “normal” trauma, and I’m just particularly invested in spelunking my
inner caves and gutting them. But it’s okay, I’m okay.
But, I won’t.
I know that it will be okay. I know that in this moment it
is all okay, and I am safe. I know that somewhere under my solar plexus and
behind a sheet of iron walling, but outside of that? I’m … scared. And, that’s
okay. Feels normal. I trust my therapist. I trust the work that I’ve done which
has pointed me in this direction, in the direction of working on, and through,
and ultimately OUT of this stuff.
It’s just like anything else. Light dispels the dark. This
is a particular area of bogeymen who are particularly vocal and wear neon-green
shark teeth as necklaces around their craggy and sagging skin. They are
bogeymen. Just rattlers in the dark. And like anything else that I’ve addressed
and faced and dispelled, like the soldiers in the BART blog, they’re a protection agent.
Underneath my terror and fear and hesitation and reluctance,
I know there’s safety and compassion and freedom and light. I know, as my
teacher says in meditations, “It’s safe to go here because of all of the work you’ve already
done.” I know, as my post-it in my kitchen says, “I am able to go to scary
places because I have a firm foundation of love.” And I know too, that this is
a wound. My therapist is a doctor. And I can trust a doctor to help me heal. 
balance · creativity · recovery · self-care

I cannot do everything all at once.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Bummer.
I can perhaps do most things, and many things, and maybe
even “all” things in turn, eventually, in time, but all at once? Not so much.
I met with a beloved teacher of mine on Sunday, and she said
something which my dear friend Chris had once said to me, You’re going to have
to choose.
OH! How I Hate To Hear That!
To give some grounding information to this broad
proclamation about the reality of physics (unless it’s quantum physics, in
which case they can be in more than one
place at once, but I digress). Yesterday, I had to cancel the final of my 4
scheduled auditions for this month. A) I was pooped. Too much outflow energy,
not enough restorative. b) in contemplating whether to go to the audition or not (by two
buses in the rain), I read the performance details, and the performance
overlaps day for day, word for word with the month before my graduation. Which
means rehearsal is right then too, which means I’d be doing school, writing a
thesis, and rehearsing for a real play? (Assuming ofcourseofcourse I got
cast.)
It was all too much. And I asked myself that if I were my
own best friend at the moment, what would I tell myself about going to the
audition? I would tell myself to take care of me. And so I did. I wrote and
called the casting director, full of chagrin and appreciation, and then went to
meet up with my fellows. Which is really what I needed to do anyway.
There, I was given the divine opportunity to hear a woman in
pain, and asked her to coffee after the meeting, and now we’ll be meeting on a
weekly basis. Werd. Go G-d.
In reference to Sunday, and Patsy’s comment about having to
choose; she was saying this because I came to her exhausted already. I’ve learned there’s a
lot of externally flowing energy involved in theater auditions. And until
you’re working with the other folks in rehearsal, or on stage with an audience,
it’s really one-sided. Once you’re with those folks, it becomes symbiotic, and
you exchange and feed off and are buoyed by one another’s energy, but, it’s been too
much all at once for me.
I also told Patsy that I was already overwhelmed by this HALF CREDIT class I’m
taking, the 2nd half of the workshop I’m implementing on Creativity
and Spirituality (um, someone ring an irony bell?). I was feeling ALL kinds of
WHOA BUDDY, it’s a half a fucking credit, back off with your emails at midnight
demanding information.
None of my business when other people want to send emails
(though my judgey judgerson wants to be like, hmm, lady, that can’t be
healthy). But hey, some people work best at midnight. I’m not one of them.
In fact, I’ve gotten into the wonderfully cozy habit over
the last few weeks of going to bed around 9pm. Yep. Lame, but I really really don’t feel that way. I realized it’s about 3 hours
after the sun goes down, or after it’s dark, and my body and brain are like,
alright, shutting down now. It’s been nice to not force myself to stay up till
some “normal” hour, which is what I usually do.
So, that’s a form of self-care. So was canceling the
audition. So was not emailing my
professor back a snipey email in answer to her questions.
It’s all information, I guess is my point. And however
loathe, really truly so uninclined to
admit it, I can’t do everything.
I can’t audition for plays, rehearse for the one I’m in,
start working with a woman on my financial stuff (which I begin this morning, in
fact), meet with the girls I need to meet with, go to class, prepare and facilitate a
workshop, write a thesis, do my homework ….. (without a car at least, sneaks in
the thought). But, with or without a car, I have to choose where my energy will
be going, and choose places where it’s not just outflow, but inflow.
Like my painting class yesterday. *Joy incarnate.* We, or I,
practically shoved my hands into the paint and began to finger paint with it. I
was so relieved and thrilled to be back to it. I love it. We were doing some, “Don’t think too hard about it” exercises, and it was marvelous. I could spit
rainbows I was so … in my element.
I know too, from having taken a similar class last year, that
by the end of the semester I was done
with painting, that there’s, with me, a burn-out with everything. I used to say I
need crop-rotation for my brain. A few months art, few music, few cooking.
Give my brain a new toy, let the land rest, refuel.
But, friends, I hate to not be able to do it all. The
painting, and the acting, and the writing, and the modeling, and the running in
and out of the city, and the meeting up with folks, and going to see music, and
keeping my home orderly. Mostly, I can’t do all the art at once.
This does not mean I
cannot do all the art – I just don’t agree – my constitution is not made that
way. My friend Chris had said, choose one thing, and that’s it, you do it,
and you’ll succeed at it. I don’t work that way, or maybe I don’t work that
way yet. I like crop rotation. I like playing in all these pockets of my brain’s
creativity. I just can’t do it all at once. In order, one season of crops at a
time, perhaps. One at a time, I can.
So, theater, for now, (as I head into rehearsals and my
acting class, lol), I’m going to lay you down. For now. I thank you. You’ve been
thrilling and helped me be brave, and open, and walk through fear, and have fun
anyway; but for now, you’re moving down my speed dial. I’ll call you when the season
has turned. 

intimacy · kindness · recovery · sex

All Except One (or Two)

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

A few years ago, I wrote a series of bitter break-up poems –
everyone loves those 😛 – and then wrote another poem that said something like,
should I now write something nice? something fluffy? and do tricks like a
wind-up toy?
And at the moment, I sort of feel like that.
So much stuff is stirred up at the moment, that although
alongside of it and indeed deeper than it, I have a center of joy that I’m
glad to finally be exposing, the rest of the “up” material is rather dark. Old
ideas, old traumas, old patterns that I’m seeing differently. And, truly, I
don’t want to subject you to it, and also, it’s not necessary that I do.
You get it. We all work through stuff. Well, most of the
people who are reading this are likely working through stuff. And it is like being
forged in fire. Or tearing off scabs. Or, as I once wrote, like stone tumbling
– the process by which a raw stone is tumbled about in this large drum and when
it comes out, it’s become smooth and shiny.
Will I be smooth and shiny? I don’t know. I also said in
that stone tumbling poem that it was like G-d’s savage grater going at me. (I
like the double meaning of “savage” – in our slang, it’s akin to beyond
awesome, as well as the definition of unfeeling carnage.)
I don’t think that G-d doesn’t have feelings about this. I
just think I only have a very tiny portion of the map, and G-d’s got an atlas
the size of Jupiter. Plus, I’m coming more and more over to the side of
thinking, or knowing rather, that all this grating is actually intended for my
highest good. That scraping away these caustic, rusted elements is actually an
act of love and compassion.
Speaking of, it occurred to me last night, that there’s one
aspect of Love that I didn’t address in yesterday’s “In All Its Forms” blog — by which I meant Love In All Its Forms. And that’s romantic love, and physical love.
(Insert Olivia Newton-John’s “Let’s Get Physical” music video here.)
This doesn’t surprise me, and is part of the swirling
ickiness I don’t really want to talk to you about. But, let’s suffice it to say
that my relationship with sexuality is actually very, very naïve. 
The truth is, for all of my midnight sweating with another
person, the heart of sex is still actually very elusive to me. And I won’t go
in to the whole line of “the intertwining of souls” stuff here. Cuz,
truthfully, I have absolutely no idea if that’s true or not. I don’t have
information about sex as tenderness. As respect and awe of … my body. I’ve
had experience of treating yours with a care and sometimes speechless
admiration. To me, the human body is – well, as has been said… a wonderland
😛 Or, further, it’s just such a novel thing to me each time I get to really
see it – and that wasn’t a common thing for me in my past. It was get in, get off,
get out. No, like, leave.
This does not set up a system of appreciation or intimacy
with sex. To be intimate with sex. Sounds pretty novel. I haven’t sat still
long enough to let you show me how you see me. (And this is not an invitation,
just an observation/admission.) And on a few rare occasions when I have finally spoken up and asked for
what I needed, I have experience being dismissed. How disappointing is that.
But that word brings me to another realization. Which is
that I have a post-it in my kitchen which reads, “I can be disappointed and
still follow my dreams.” And, it is occurring to me more and more that this
whole plane of human experience has been lost to me. That I have cut off hope
for it, and therefore don’t try very hard, or am “happy” with what I get.
This is another place where I’m being shown a need for
change. Because on a cellular (and soul) level, my body is thirsty for something sweet. My
body is thirsty for kindness. And, after years of
telling it to get over it, I’m realizing this tender care is very much
something I want too. 
creativity · healing · modeling · recovery · school · vulnerability

"And Render the Visioner Whole."

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!!!! Although I should also say that
today’s one and only class (go grad school) is Advanced Painting (go grad
school!). 🙂 
I’m terrifyingly thrilled to be going back to it. When, on the
last day of last semester, I said to my classmate (in response to her relief at
it being over) that I was looking forward to it beginning again, mainly because
my break was shaping up to look nothing at all like a break or rest or
refuel, and I knew that something would have to change about how I was shaping
it.
However, I took work anyway, got sick, and generally felt just as
soul weary yesterday as I imagined I was going to feel. Hence my gargantuan
relief at being back in school.
For me, this means being back to a purpose. That I have a
definition, a little name tag under my photo – “Student.” I have a label.
Not, “Part-time temporary employee.” Cuz, I’ll tell you, that feels like a
really crappy label. Unrooted. Directionless.
That said, I did run some numbers last night, and have
worked out how much I will still need to earn each month to make my ends meet,
and not be stark raving broke at the end of May, when school is done. To
provide myself a mini-cushion of time to … uh, do whatever it is I’ll be doing
at the end of May.
Although I now have my student loan money, sitting in my
bank account since yesterday with a HUGE pulsating red warning alarm – DO NOT
SPEND DO NOT SPEND. This money is spoken for. And, I will
need to not blow my wad on a car. (gross, when thought of literally. sorry –
but that is what car magazines are for, isn’t it?) 😛  A car may still be possible, but I will have to gather
some help on “thinking” it through.
I did not get a call back for the musical, and I am/was
pretty cool about it. I didn’t really think I would, but as I’ve said, it was
my job only to show up the best I could. Now, my best will hopefully continue
to improve as I do more of these, and practice in advance, but, for today, I
gave it my best shot, and I’m so glad I did.
Mostly because, I auditioned for a fucking musical – i.e. I sang in front of a panel of 4 people and an accompanist. One woman at the table briefly looked up at me as I walked into the room, and then proceeded to fiddle
on her mac for the remainder of the time I was in there – not looking up once.
Whatever, not my business. And, nor have I sat in a small room for 8 hours,
listening to hopefuls nail and fail an audition. I might fiddle too.
But, because I had had the experience of doing that audition
on Saturday, on Sunday, when I auditioned for the live modeling guild, guess
what? Not even NEARLY as nervous. Truly. Being stark naked in front of a panel
of 5 people, coed, was not nearly as terrifying to me as singing, fully clothed
in front of a panel of people. Both are forms of being naked, if you ask me. 
The audition was held in a really old building in SOMA, and the labels on the glass
panes of the doors looked like the old block print you see in private eye
movies of old. One of the doors said San Francisco Odd Fellows, which I found
rather amusing, but also had images of secret society cloaks.
I was almost last on the roster, so I got to spend a lot of time hanging
out, watching other people fold their bodies in half to stretch. It wasn’t all
“model” types, as in fashion/runway models. There were large, small, old,
young. A cross section of folks, but all with a certain … I wouldn’t say “ease”
or “whimsy,” as certainly not everyone there was someone you’d want to be stuck
in an elevator with – but for the most part, each had some strain of artisan in
them. I mean, you’re auditioning to be a model for art classes and painters and
sculptors. It’s a pretty cool thing.
I know from my painting class last year when we had live
models in what a difference it made, rather than painting from a photo. It was
also pretty weird, but it’s almost like you sort of accept that this is weird,
and ignore that folks in the room are naked. Like at the end of my audition,
after I’d posed in a series of postures, which was the sort of silent,
observing, professional portion, they then asked me some questions about my
application and why I wanted to do this, and I’m standing there, the only naked
person in the room, talking to them like I’m on a normal job interview,
answering about my resume. It was weird. Yes, you are naked, but yes, we are right
now ignoring that fact and pretending not to notice that we’re having a normal
conversation with you despite it. Lol. It was pretty weird, pretty fun. They
even asked if I could do some of my performance poetry while posing, and I did.
That was pretty cool.
Some of this for me is about taking ownership of my body.
Not of how it looks, but how I feel in
it. How connected am I to this thing that walks me around my whole life,
digests whatever crazy thing I feed it, and makes my fingernails grow? How
connected am I to this thing that has been abused by self and others? … is
really what it comes down to.
Much like “Owning Voice,” this is another place of
ownership. Of feeling like the master of my body, my fate, what happens to it,
how I engage with it, and how I allow others to engage with it. To be naked in
front of this panel is to claim my own body — to take responsibility and care for all that has happened to it, and all that will happen to it. This is the
vehicle I’ve been given, but it’s like a snail’s shell, it’s not just a house,
it’s also part of the being. And for a while, and for intermittently, I have
not been connected to this part of my being. Throwing it around hither and
thither.
So, this audition for me was one of healing. The musical one
was too, but in a different way. My friend talks about soul retrieval,
particularly in reference to certain meditations. And for me, these actions are
doing just that. I am retrieving parts of my soul which I have dismissed and
shattered from myself, and I am making myself whole again.
How’s that for a Wednesday morning? 

*P.S. I realized where I was quoting the title of this blog from. It’s a line from a draft of a poem I’d written last fall.

excerpt from “The Intelligence of Memory”

Like a fossil patient and low
Truth will wash up like integration
And render the visioner whole.
abundance · change · letting go · recovery · self-care · work

The Last Mile.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

 or “Romance & Finance.”

So, I spoke with the HR woman at work, and today and tomorrow will be my last days temping here with this interior design firm. Last days for now, as school starts on Wednesday, and the reality is I’m really, really worn. The word I used to the HR person was “spare.” That’s how I’m feeling at the moment. In fact, I’m writing this blog at work right now, as I DID make my effort to get to work on time… then I realized that the Oakland bus system and BART are running on a Sunday schedule for Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, and so my reliable bus was not coming 😛

But, I caught a bus, and made it in anyway. On my way in, I was reading from a book which shares the stories of people who have recovered from the insanity of financial woes, and the story I read really hit me. I realize that, with the upcoming influx of tax return and student loan disbursement, I’m right about to throw myself back into my own merry-go-round of financial problems.

All my fetishizing of having a car won’t solve my problem. Taking jobs I don’t want to take won’t solve my problem, but not actually taking consistent and persistent action toward earning money in alternative ways won’t solve my problem either. Luckily, last night, I got a call from a woman who is willing to help me walk through the steps I need to take to get clearer and freer from this roller coaster of poverty/manic spending/poverty/manic spending. Cuz that’s my pattern. I am broke broke broke, in a panic, and then a miracle occurs, I have a job, money again, and then I start to live in magical thinking, and spend spend spend. And I’m back to where I was.

Now, it’s usually not “all bad”, so I justify it. It’s been, in the past, a lot of spending large wads of money on parties for my friends, or a “gotta get away” weekend (i.e. I’m not taking enough daily care of myself, and need to blow a large wad on RAMPANT self-care. You know, TIME TO RELAX folks. It doesn’t really work that way, I’ve discovered.).

I feel like things are going to turn. That these are the last vestiges of my best ideas about how to earn, save, and spend money. (I say “save” with only the most passing acquaintance with an ING account that’s had $0.09 in it for over a year.) So, that feels good. That the sun *is* around the corner, and that I’m crawling the last mile on ragged, glass embedded knees. The last mile that I’ve had to crawl to see that I just can’t fucking crawl anymore.

Perhaps I’ll only have to turn this corner once, perhaps I’ll have to turn it more than once. But I really do hope that things are going to shift for me. In the end, it’s not at all about money. It’s about my availability to my life. Being distracted by my money woes is a great way to stay small, and contracted, and constricted. And as I head into all these new adventures in my life, I would like to create a firmer foundation to stand on – and part of that is getting off this merry-go-round, and listening to how other people have walked from the soul-crush of financial insecurity into the hopeful, secure world of abundance and clarity.

It’s also not about “making a lot of money.” As, I’ve had wonderful salaries in the past, and still only have $25 in my ING account, which I put in last month.

Finally, it has occurred to me that my cycle of nothing then something then nothing looks a lot like my relationships with men. It’s everything all at once, or it’s nothing nothing at all. It’s gorging on the love and intensity of a relationship, or it’s like the lonely echo down a long well shaft. Remember what I said about the Italian? Burn hot, burn quick? Yeah, well my longest (also most recent) relationship *just* made it over the 7 month mark – and the one before that (about 3 years prior) was six months. (Embarrassing, but true, prior to that, my longest official “girlfriend/boyfriend” relationship was 6 weeks. … 6 weeks with the alcoholic painter; 6 weeks with the alcoholic chef; and, oddly, firstly, 6 weeks with the non-alcoholic but tanning bed addicted jerzey guido …)

Vicious “Everything or Nothing” wields its ugly head here too.

I truly believe that as I heal one, I heal the other. And I’ve begun healing both in different ways recently.

So, To letting go of my old and best ideas, which have led me to a temp job, zero “real” prospects, and exhaustion.

Bring on the corner. (gently please?) 🙂