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. 
healing · intimacy · school · vulnerability

The Gaze.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

So, despite my declaration (or desire to adhere) to a cozy,
yummy 9 pm bedtime, there will of course be exceptions.

Like, every Tuesday night. My new poetry workshop ends at
9:15 on Tuesday nights, and my painting class begins at 9 am on Wednesday
mornings, so these are going to be quick turn around days, and I’ll have to
learn how to work within these parameters. Mainly, sleep enough within them!
Also, despite my saying yesterday, “Theater, I lay you down,” … my
poetry course is mainly, almost entirely focused on performance. Not just
poetry, but, performance art. I’m SO
freaking excited. Like I said, this teacher is a pretty big deal (Guillermo
Gomez Pena, look him up, you’ll get what I mean), and his methods are NOT your
typical poetry workshop, where everyone brings in a poem, reads it, murmurs
comments of assent or dissent and move on.
This, will be much different. And I can’t wait. Last night,
we did all kinds of spontaneous verbal exercises, then some pretty awkward and
intense physical interactions with each other, the other students. It was a
series of looking into another student’s eyes for minutes on end, with
different attendant variations – to explore the gaze and being fully present
with another human being. It, as you can imagine, could get a little awkward.
These were not the ice-breaker activities we did in summer camp! It was weird,
and telling, and opening, and closing, and awkward, and just interesting to
notice the experience.
Further, I had training for the artist’s modeling yesterday
for about 2 hours in the city, and the facilitator said that there are two
reasons that people get out of the business. 1) it’s too physically demanding.
(and after actually running through some 1 minute, 5 minute, and then a 20
minute pose, I assure you, I completely
agree – my muscles are going to be learning a thing or two about what works
with my anatomy… and blood flow – yes, my fingers are numb if I hold them
over my head for 5 minutes…!)
The 2nd reason he said people get out of the
business is because they can’t take “the gaze” anymore. That although, in
reality, the artist and students drawing the model are really only seeing what
they want to see, that mainly they’re interested in form and shadow and
contour, the model can begin to get hyper-sensitive to the gaze, and feel too
vulnerable underneath it.
He said to remember that what they’re seeing is only what
you’re giving them. That still, we’re in control, even if we’re nude, and eyes
open, we still, like most people walking around fully clothed all day, get the
chance to allow people to see only what we want them to see.
In one of the exercises last night, the 3rd woman
I “stared” at, well, I’ll tell you, she was pretty powerful. And after so much
outflow, which is my natural setting (“She’s gone from SUCK to BLOW!” … Spaceballs reference), it was interesting to feel that
actually, she was going to be the one with the outflow, and I could choose
whether to let her in or not. (And if you’re rolling your eyes right now, and
being like, “Molly, you are sooo Woo-woo hippie shit,” meh, c’est la vie.)
So, I did let her, and several minutes into the exercise, I actually began to cry. Not
on purpose! But because, I could feel that as exhausted and raw as I’ve felt over
the last month or so, I’ve still been outwardly focused.
Like with the 2nd girl, I could feel her pain and
loneliness, and she actually said afterward that she realized how little
physical contact she gets these days (we were holding hands as well as eye
contact in this one). And I was sending her all kinds of love and healing.
But with the 3rd girl, I tried to send it out,
but it was like, no buddy, This Bud’s for You. And she sent that healing, and
that love, and that gaze into me. And I felt myself seen, and held by it. And
just let go, into her power, and saw my own vulnerability and raw places by riding into myself through her gaze. I told her afterward, to explain why I’d cried, that my energy had been so
outwardly focused and I’ve felt so raw lately, that to let someone else in, to
allow the energy to go the other way ‘round was really powerful for me, and a
relief to let myself sit in it.
So, yeah. Although I’m not trolling the casting call website
at the moment or going on auditions, I’m pretty sure the HP is arranging for
me to engage in my body, my emotions, and my performance in a variety of new
ways. Even woo-woo hippie ones.
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. 

acting · courage · intimacy · letting go · maturity · modeling · poetry · sex

The Hero’s Journey

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

See, perhaps it’s not that San Francisco is actually cold.
Perhaps it is the proliferation of single-paned windows and inadequate heating.
The wonderful high ceilings don’t do much to trap in the heat either. So,
solution? Munchkin houses. Winterized. lol. See, there’s even a word,
“Winterized.” I’m not sure that the Bay Area has much acquaintance with this
notion, as we all sort of seem to believe that it doesn’t actually get that
cold, or that we’re more like Southern California. Perhaps this is what they
meant when they said “California Dreamin’.”
In any case, drafty as my home is. Grateful for it.
Especially on what are Bay Area winter days.
There is a big part of me that wants to write an addendum to
yesterday’s blog. To somehow mitigate and soften the “I haven’t had a great sex
life” theme. Most of that is because I want you to see me “better,” some of
that is that I don’t want to insult anyone I’ve slept with who might be reading
this and tell them of course there are occasions when it’s been marvelous.
But, that’s only wanting them to like me too, another way of “seeing me
better.” So, I will leave the truth as the half-truth it is, because, for
certain, there are the good experiences, and there is the truth that it’s less
about them, and more about my inability to ask for what I need (in most areas
of my life).
And, I will hold the truth that, still, I feel naïve and
unexperienced or uneducated in this way, and am holding that with compassion,
and an intention to head in that direction. There’s a fair amount on one of my
collages that’s the phrase, The Joy of Kissing, and I wonder if perhaps part of
that is a call to start again at the beginning, you know? To start with one of
the most tender places, and just meditate there, pause there, let myself savor
it, and not skip to the main course.
Also, I want to soften the “this is not an invitation” line,
because although it’s not a plea for you, reader, to initiate me into the
softened world of pleasure, I actually DO
want to offer an invitation into the world/Universe. This IS an invitation from
me to the machinations of the world to head there, to gentleness, and intimacy,
and … well, whatever else I feel I’ve been missing in this area. So, Universe,
this is an invitation, written in velvet, in loopy script, and something less
intimidating than red for experiences of physical intimacy on a softer plane.
Speaking of physicality, I had my orientation for the art
modeling guild yesterday, and 12 year old girl that I still am, it was hard to
not giggle when the facilitator said, “And men? No Erections! Ever.” Lol. “Any
man who tells you he can’t control it is lying. And if he really can’t, then he
shouldn’t be a model.” It’s nice the systems of protection and comfort that
they have set up, which is why I’m really glad to be doing it this way, rather
than freelance, which can be ICKY (see
former blog about older man with vagina skulls).
After the orientation, I went directly to my audition for a
Shakespeare company, and guess what? Not that bad. 🙂 THIS TIME, I didn’t blank out in the middle of the monologue.
I futzed a few things, but, if you didn’t have a script in front of you, you’d
never know. Point being, I actually did better than my last spoken word
audition, and really, “Better than last time” is all I’m lookin’ for. I also,
miraculously, ran into a girl I have just been beginning to see around lately
over here in Oakland with some of the financial healing folks. She’s been doing
this circuit for a long time, it seems, and knew nearly everyone who walked in
and out of the building, and chatted with another girl about, “Are you working
with David? No, with Bobby.” and other such insider speak that I am totally
novice of. But… now, we both have an ally. Someone showing up and letting go of
the results, and also some who’s willing to sit with me and initiate me in some
of these lingos, and people, and classes, and companies. She even suggested a
company she thought I’d do well with. 🙂 Go G-d.
Finally, for today’s blog. I had a very vivid dream last night about an older friend of mine
who I found out – in the dream – had killed herself suddenly. I was shocked and
devastated, and went out from where I was directly into her funeral. It was
packed. And yet, even her husband, who was shocked was actually not as shaken
as you’d expect.
Part of Saturday’s spirituality workshop included a story about Minos
and the Minotaur, using the myth as a frame for us to see perhaps what part of
the story, what part of our own hero’s journey we are in. Minos made a deal
with Poseiden. Poseiden said that Minos would become king if he sacrificed this
gorgeous white bull. Minos said sure. Became king. … And then decided the bull
was too special and meant too much to him, and so he sacrificed 50 goats
instead. (This did not go well in the end.)
I said that I feel like this is the part of the journey I’m on. In order to ascend to the next
level, the next stage, the next iteration of myself and my life, I have to
sacrifice my attachment to what it had been, aka my bull (dying we awaken to a
new life, kind of stuff). Instead, I’ve been hemming and hawing, and saying,
well, what if I give you this
instead, what if I sort of dance around the issue, and lop off my foot in the
process – won’t that give me the result that I ultimately need?
No dice.
I also said, that I also felt like the part of the story
when they kill the Minotaur, when this beast that cannot be a part of society,
but it’s really not his fault, is killed. With this spirit of sadness and also
with relief do I … intend? to kill my bull.
I think that part of my dream was about that, the death of
these attachments to my past. I put up a whole host of new (to the blog) poems,
and as I was editing what work I had, I felt like all the family stuff, all the
blamey stuff and most of the trauma stuff didn’t need to be up anymore.
Which leads me to wonder: if what I wanted my thesis to be was an excavation of old stuff, a laying to rest of it, haven’t I already done
that? In the very writing of it, and even in the sharing of it with my
professors and classmates, haven’t I given voice to this? Is this actually what
I need to say anymore? Is this anymore where the charge is for me?
I’m not sure. Well, no. Actually, the answer is no. But I’m
not sure what that will mean for this specific piece of writing I have to hand
in.
But, I also said in the workshop on Saturday that despite my
reluctancy to sacrifice the bull, my reluctancy to grieve for what was lost and
misplaced in my youth, the fact is, I’m already in it. It’s no use saying, I don’t
want to. Or I won’t. Or I can’t. Because, baby, I already am. 
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. 
acting · friendship · love · persistence · self-care · synchronicity

In All Its Forms

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Yesterday, I got to cross a few more “Serenity Moths” off my
list, including letting my apartment get messy (kitchen, another story); no
fuzzy socks (my clothing allowance this month will now be worn on my very
toasty happy feet); and not using my art and craftyness.
Today is the birthday of the woman who I have known longest
in my life, second only to my family. We met when we were both three-years old
in a story both our mothers love to tell.
Soon after my brother was born, my family moved from Brooklyn to northern New Jersey. Maybe that same or maybe next day, our new door bell rang.
The story goes, that the little blond girl who lived just next-door stood on the door-step, looked up at
my mom, and asked, “Does a little girl live here?” I peeked my head out
from behind my mom’s legs and we have been friends for nearly 30 years. (wow, I’d initially wrote 20!, but no, it’s 30!!)
Like most friendships, it’s seen its fair share of trials,
but through a fair share of miracles, we have found ourselves to be strong friends again,
across the sands of time and Minnesota.
So, yesterday, I made a crafty little gift for her. I took
out my tools I laid down since my Christmas card puttering-out, and infused as
much love as I could into it.
I also put up a handwritten sign in my apartment, just below
the very tall almost 12 foot ceiling: “Love, as much as you can.” And put little
hearts around it. ;P This was the edict, the command, and the hope, from the
workshop I did a month or more ago when we meditated to ourselves as really old people, and asked ourselves what lessons we needed to learn. Today is the final of the 4 in the
series of workshops on relationships. Spiritual Contracts and Inner Archetypes.
On the note of that type of work, I did get an email back
from the Sacred Stream meditation school, and they do have a scholarship, but
it’s itty bitty, and I can’t afford the course right now – particularly after I
pay the security deposit to the Bay Area Modeling Guild, which I found out last
night that I got in to 🙂  But,
that’s alright, I feel like I’ve got enough spiritual shenanigans happening
around and in me at the moment, that I’m not quite sure
now is the right time to blow the top off myself anyway. Sometimes, I just need
to regroup. Ground myself again.
So, doing these sort of “of the earth” type activities has
been nice, cleaning my apartment, making art, finally in-putting my numbers on
what I spent in December. (which, I was probably right to fear! oh holiday
spirit…) 😉
On another note completely, so, I’d been praying for an
acting coach. That was the suggestion I got from my acting friend in SF, and
although I’d been half-heartedly looking, I’d also been dragging my feet
feeling that I didn’t have the money to really afford a coach.
Then, I went to my Thursday afternoon class. Acting
Fundamentals. I had completely forgotten that I’d signed up for this course.
But I had. So, maybe I don’t have an individual acting coach, but I now have an
acting teacher. Included in the price of all that I’m already paying for school.
She’s the casting director for Berkeley Rep, and has been teaching acting
forever, and has acted forever, and although at the moment she seemed a little sharp at the
edges, I think this is just what I’ve been asking for.
After class, she said that it seemed I had more experience
than the other girls, and I said, I’m open to any help she can give, and she
said she tries to challenge and meet people where they’re at. I also found it
rather hilarious that I’m more experienced than anyone in my theater experience, as I feel like such a
novice I can’t even tie my shoes straight!
But, it’s not about comparison. It’s about what I can learn,
and how I can inhabit my body and my emotions more fully. It’s about WAAAAYYY
tuning down the cacophony of my heartbeat in my eardrums when I stand in front
of a panel at an audition. I think the audition is the hardest part – for me at
least. Good thing I have two more over the next two days. 😉
So, here’s to Love, which finds it’s way back to us, over 30
years of friendship, in the form of a needed teacher, and in the self-care
which buys me these awesome fuzzy socks. 
dance · direction · healing · intuition

Dance Dance Revolution.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

The strangest development occurred last night as I was
falling asleep. Actually, I wasn’t falling asleep, having dosed myself with a
trough of sugar not long before bed. As raw as I was feeling yesterday, eating
for comfort seemed wonderfully acceptable, and I was permissive with myself around it.
That said, it was taking me a while to fall asleep with all
the sugar running laps around my blood cells, and my thoughts began to wander.
I began choreographing a ballet.
?? What? Yes. In the light of day, now, I see that perhaps
this is the mode of expression for some of the more raw things that I have to
“say,” – that writing actually is much too close a mode for me, and that when
I’ve tried to write about some of this, it comes off so cold and distant, or so
majorly personal that it doesn’t effect “good” writing. Or, maybe, dance is
just the mode this particular set of events in my life wants to take.
And, I don’t think it would be that bad. In fact, I sort of
story-boarded about 2/3rds of it last night; it wouldn’t be long, maybe 20 minutes. I can see the lighting and the
costumes, and the masks. Because there will be masks. The psyche always has
masks. It will be haunting, and breakingly beautiful. And, I believe, it will
be identifiable. As in, people will be able to relate to the experience, or if
not directly, they will relate to the emotions of the experience. Most people
have trauma. Unfortunately. And if not experienced at that level, most people
can relate to heart-break, or the cycle of addiction that draws us back to
recreate it again and again, attempting to change the outcome, or “make it
work” this time.
Perhaps pipe-dream. Perhaps not. It was so out of left
field, that it sort of feels divinely inspired – i.e. “not me.” Not my
machinations. I also happen to go to one of the best liberal arts schools in
the area, which has a phenomenal dance program. It’s not completely out of
range or reach that this could happen, in some way or other. Perhaps even an
addendum to my thesis.
My poetry thesis, I have decided, is a “tome.” When I said
that word to my advisor, I didn’t actually know what the precise definition
was, but it felt like the right word. I just looked it up right now,
and it means a volume, one book in a set. And although that doesn’t capture
entirely what I meant, it does make sense to me.
The thesis is basically a record of events and
experiences from the first 25 years of my life. I don’t really expect anyone to
particularly care about it. I don’t particularly care if they do. I said to my
advisor that much of the writing that I was doing for it didn’t feel current.
That it felt like this was old, ancient stuff, but that it was apparently
wanting to come up and out, and to be recorded, acknowledged, and then set
aside.
I don’t intend this book to be the thing that takes me
around the world on reading tours. But that’s not its intention. Its intention
is to be heard, seen, recorded. And laid to rest. This thesis (which per the requirements is to be a book of 40 – 80 poems), the process of this
thesis is like a burial ritual. This is the getting ready of the body,
preparing it for eternal and final rest. It will be the laying to rest of a
long and sad and manic period in my life, and it will effect an acceptance and peace in
me, that it will finally have been acknowledged, instead of stifled.
(Acknowledged by me, that is.)
However, like I said, there is some stuff which isn’t making
itself quite available to me in the written way. Which feels too big to whittle
down to a few words on a stagnant page (which, ultimately is why I may never
be a poet or writer by trade, I believe – or at least, strictly a “page poet.”
I want my work to live, to work on you – though, of course, plenty of people and
writers create the most enormous and powerful effects on the page, but it’s not
my sole medium).
So, ballet. How odd. And yet, I already feel myself moved by
it.
And by the purifying power of catharsis. 
healing · joy · meditation · self-care · spirituality

Drinking the Kool-Aid

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Well, folks, it occurs to me that I’m not sure what I will
write about today. I just did a morning meditation – a shamanic journey, in
fact – and I’m a little cock-eyed and raw at the moment.
I usually choose not to do the journeys by myself, partly
because they’re really powerful, and sometimes I just want the assurance of
someone more experienced in case I come out with questions or concerns. And
partly, I don’t like to do them on my own because they are so powerful, and
sometimes I get so thrown by them, like today. It’s hard to put the pieces of
normalcy and reality back together – it’s like waking up from a very deep
sleep, it takes a while to orient yourself to where you are, and mainly, who
you are again.
It occurs to me that this is what I meant when I talked
about being in school as giving me the time to get centered in myself and my life. Not rushing to a
job at 8:30am, not being distracted by the water cooler, or exhaustion, gives me
the space to do this work.
Granted, people who work 9-5 can also find time for spiritual
enhancement 😉
I said yesterday that I’ve been doing work around “soul
retrieval,” and I’ve heard and consider this practice as a way to re-own and
integrate those parts of myself which I have dismissed or which have been
sliced away through trauma. Well, this retrieval seems to be happening more often lately.
It happened on the New Year’s retreat two weeks ago, and it happened this
morning, both in shamanic journey meditation. (I bought the CD of the shamanic
drumming about 2 years ago, and so I listen to it on my iPod when I do it on my own – otherwise, “in real life,” someone actually drums.)
It’s not for everyone. Well, that’s not true. More accurate
is that not everyone is into it, interested in it, really cares, or believes in
it. But, that’s neither here nor there. When I began this practice about 4
years ago, I wasn’t so sure it would “work” for me either, but, consider me a
believer. I’m no expert, and won’t try to explain it here, but you can look it
up. Also, my teacher’s teacher runs a school that does this work called the
Sacred Stream in Berkeley (laugh, scoff, roll eyes, or vomit if you must). I’m
not here to convert anyone, it’s just a tool that has been offered to me, and
which I’ve picked up, not “with abandon,” but with tentative, frightened,
continuous longing.
I was speaking with a woman on the phone this morning before
the meditation, and she was telling me a bit about one of her spiritual practices.
And honestly, I think it’s marvelous that there are so many. A wrench for every
nut, as they say. Or, all rivers lead to the ocean.
I actually emailed Sacred Stream the other day to ask if
they had any sort of scholarship or volunteer program that I could do, so that
I could participate in their upcoming Intro to Shamanic Journey 2-day course. I
haven’t heard yet, but several women on the retreat with me suggested this woman.
I asked why. I mean, I get a lot of juice from my
teacher/friend, why see/try someone else. I was told that it’s like the
difference between two artists, it’s just another view, instead of getting it
all from one (and putting the one I have on a bit of a pedestal, I admit). She
also said that it’s just neat to be in this woman’s presence. That she’s got
the juice, and it’s infectious. Spiritually Infectious Juice. Sounds like
something you pick up in India and ties you to the toilet for 10 days.
But, for now, I’m going to keep juicing this fruit, and
patch my soul back together one lost bit at a time – because maybe all the
king’s horses and men couldn’t do it, but we’ve got a bit more power than that on our side. 
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.
joy · letting go

The Birth of Everything (for Kate)

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

I’m having a hard time getting this blog out today. I have
written a couple of false starts, but they feel just that, false. Maybe
pedantic. So, apparently, I give you this instead. With love, M.
on an ancient surface of being there was a traveler. he sat
in his solitude for the time of nothing and worried that his everything was perhaps on the underside of the cushion on which he was sitting.
the traveler opened one eye, squinting through into the
vastness, lit like a clown in the spotlight of a tragi-comedy. there was
glitter on the lashes of his one eye and in the new light, they danced a fortuna among the lampposts of strands.
he hadn’t been able to pop his hip bone for a few millennia,
and it was thrumming in a monotone bassoon voice. hum hum hum. there were
other sounds too. the sharp and defiant crack of a planet being born. this made the corner of his mouth
turn up in mild approval and awe. 
new-born planets have a very particular ring to them. like
the variety of meditation bowls. cheepey little excited planets, proud of
themselves for having been manifested into existence. the long slow toll of a
heavy planet with many moon brides, undergirding what ought to be a cacophony
of celestial banter, but which was also so encompassing, it was silence itself. or
not silence rather, but noiseless vibration.
through his cracked eye, the traveler concluded that it was
perhaps safe to open his second eye, but this one was turned inward to his soul
and teaching and center and calm, and he wasn’t quite sure that two outward
eyes were in fact what he wanted. but outward or inward, all of the eyes were
in fact in all of the directions already and without the deliberate gaze, the inner limitlessness would remain. without his gaze on the throbbing heart of invention,
it would still nonetheless be the throbbing heart of invention.
and so our traveler with his radiant vocal hip and internal
oculars intact, opened his second eye.
in that instant, both immediate and eternal, having been
happening all along and yet never once before, the darkness of his
surroundings burst into a firework finale of swirling color. the colors were
in full and ecstatic possession of themselves, and ran in spirals toward one another, creating for
a moment the scene of a forest or a skyscraper or a hyperfluorescent deep sea
creature with no eyes and 8 antennae.
the fluid colors tumbled about in the joy, merging,
separating, one color, multicolors, sparkles, pulses, and chased themselves around the
giddy and somber planets.
with his two eyes, and his trillions of bodily cells, the
traveler met and observed the dancers, all of whom were
encasing him and yet not existing at all. it was both void and dark stillness, and chaotic, sincere beauty.
with his two eyes, one an iris of pale blue
diamond, the other a slick curve of onyx, he brought forth the
invention, but also simply recognized it for the first time.
the glitter grabbed hold of the boulders of tears, careened down his face, and splattered into a thousand beads of light.