Colour

I’m white. And I’m racist. I’m nice. And I’m racist. I know. As I write the words, I hear all of my white friends and family take a collective gasp (quick, sharp, appalled, embarrassed) and then breathe out slowly, a collective and awkward “noooooo.” Simultaneously, I hear my friends, family and colleagues of colour affirmatively and confidently say “YASS. YES. You are. Finally, you see.”

You see, racism is not just overt. Racism is not just a shaved head and a swastika. It is not just a white hood. It is not just a blackface/brownface/redface/yellowface halloween costume. It is not just a slanderous phrase. It is not just individual acts of violence. It is all of these things and more. It is the things we don’t even notice, when we’re white. It’s the things that every person of colour is acutely aware of in every interaction. Racism is not just an individual thought process or action. Racism is the way our systems are built and sustained. Racism is in all of us, around all of us.

I once wrote a poem, in university, about how I wished I was Black. About being embarrassed about my white skin, my boringness, my “all-American (Canadian) Girl” look. About wanting to be “exotic.” (I know. It makes me wince to think about it.)

I shared it, along with a few other pieces, with a Black friend. He had comments about all the other pieces: “keep this one exactly as it is…add a verse to this one.” But the one about hating my whiteness, the one I was (racistly) seeking approval of the most: no comment. I sensed his discomfort, that perhaps there might have been something on the tip of his tongue that he wanted me to understand, but still: no comment. I had a fleeting thought, that I brushed away as quickly as it came: was that poem a bit racist?

Once, I was called a ‘white person’ and it deeply offended me. I heard “racist”. I heard “white supremacist.”. I heard “bad person.” I cried. I defended myself. I said “but I try to be humble. I try to be nice. I try to do good in the world. I’m not a white person like you say I’m a white person.”

But, I am a white person like she said.

For a while, having never met my biological father, I fostered a secret desire to discover Indigenous ancestry. To “make up for” my whiteness. Maybe if I learn my father’s Indigenous, that can wipe away some of my whiteness, some of my racism, some of my shame. I am blonde, and fair, and freckled. I was raised in a white middle-working-class family. Most of the people I grew up around are white.

You don’t wipe away decades of ingrained racism with a story about an estranged parent or a DNA test.

Once, I wrote to one of my idols, a powerful Indigenous woman, after hearing her provide a keynote at a conference. I told her about a story I’ve been wanting to tell, about race. About adoption. About family. About class. About identity. She did not respond. I have reflected on that email for many years. I’ve tried to drum it up from the bowels of my email sent and trash boxes to re-read, to scrutinize, to understand. I had that fleeting thought: was that email a bit racist? I now know, it was. I was trying to take the story and the voice of another person and tell it as my own. I thought I was trying to do good. To write something compelling, relatable, empathetic. Instead, I tokenized one of my idols. A stupid white girl trying to be something she’s not. Trying to tell a story that isn’t hers to tell. Instead of making space to amplify the voices of those whose stories these are, I put myself in the centre. It’s called “centering oneself.” It’s a way white people make conversations about race about THEM. That’s racism.

My social media feeds are explosive with the stories of the Christian Coopers, the Ahmed Aubreys, the George Floyds and allll the missing & murdered Indigenous women across North America who are either so plentiful or so marginalized, they don’t even get their names in hashtags.

The story of Christian Cooper and Amy Cooper, coincidently with the same last names, has ridden in my heart since it broke. Amy’s actions are disturbing. Some would say “shocking,” yet others would say “typical.” Depends on where you stand. Depends on your context. Depends on the colour of your skin. Are you an: ohmygoshthatishorriblyracistandSHAMEONHER person or a thisishowwhitepeopleactallthetimeitsjustnotusuallyrecorded person?

As all of us white people hop on board with the stoning of Amy Cooper, I think about all the times I’ve acted in implicitly – even, explicitly – racist ways. All of the times I’ve wielded the power bestowed upon me simply because of the colour of skin I was born in. All of the times I’ve used my power for my own gains instead of to make space, to elevate, the shut-the-fuck-up and LISTEN to people of colour. All of the times I’ve done these things, nicely. With kindness, with excuses, with “good intent” with ignorance.

Don’t forget: I’m nice. I’m white. I’m racist.

Finding a way to say those words, in one sentence, out loud, took some work. But I got here. I see it now. Finally, I’m at the beginning. The beginning of doing the work that needs to be done, the beginning of doing the work that is our burden to bear. And I have to say it out loud if I want to change it.

I don’t want to be racist. But denying truth does not make it cease to be so. I’ve been wrestling with this truth for some time. I tried to deny. I try to be an ostrich. I tried to cry rivers of tears for the atrocities that occur all around us, every day, in small and large ways hoping that would somehow justify me and show me to be anti-racist (cue White Fragility). We learn of these atrocities, and we cry. We pity. We post stuff on social media about how horrible it is. We jump on the drama bandwagon. We cry out. We do a good deed post. Then we get on with our lives.

And we keep being racist.

From the crossing to the other side of the street when we see a person of colour walking toward us, telling ourselves it’s because we’re women and it’s dusk and it’s about “safety.” To knees on backs of handcuffed men until they die, telling ourselves it was “protocol” or “necessary force.” To the reaction of fear and defenses, wielding lies and power at a calm black man watching birds because he dared to challenge us. To hypercriticism of grammar and policing of tone (“she’s just so….ANGRY.”) To the daily barriers that face people of colour that just aren’t there for you and I. To every freaking time we say “I’m not like them, I’m not racist” and pretend we don’t see, pretend we don’t know, pretend it’s not on us. White supremacy exists, and it’s on us to change.

I have been paralyzed into silence because whiteness taught me to be “good” and to be “perfect” and to be “right.” So, for fear of “getting it wrong” I say nothing at all. And I have learned that talking about race and racism is hard. And I have learned, that the consequence of silence is harder and more awful than any messy conversation can be. The stakes are too freaking high not to get uncomfortable.

I have been afraid to speak because as a white person, I am aware of the tendency of white women to make the conversation about them, instead of getting the fuck out of the spotlight and creating space for the stories and words of the people this is REALLY about, those with black and yellow and brown and red skin. Those who are, daily, faced with racism in small and large ways. So for fear of “doing it wrong” and being “called out” I just listen and don’t speak. I just watch and don’t speak. I am a bystander. Remember what happened in that story in Psychology 101? Bystanders don’t help, and people die.

But with the most recent stories pulsing through my newsfeeds, I realize that we do need to shut up and listen but we also need to speak up. It’s both. We need to listen. We need believe. We need to get out of the spotlight. We need make space. And, we NEED to be having the conversation about how we’re racist. The conversation about how being “good people” is not mutually exclusive of racism. The conversation about how we’re so entrenched in systems of racism centuries old we can’t even see it. The conversation about how we need to UNlearn what we learned so we can learn the truth, so we can acknowledge our part, so that we can apologize, so that we can change. The conversation about how we keep burdening people of colour with the labour of educating us, with the labour of bearing OUR pain when we learn of THEIR pain. Isn’t it enough that white supremacy caused their pain. Shouldn’t we have to do some of the lifting? MORE of the lifting. ALL of the freaking lifting. We made this mess. We perpetuate this mess every single time we pretend that being nice is enough. We have been born into systems where whiteness=power and privilege and we continue to benefit from these structures. And the longer we cling to the shame and blame of iwouldneverdothats about the Amy Cooper’s of the world, the longer it will take us to face the truth.

We’re all racist.

Every single white person is benefiting from being so and it terrifies us to face losing that. It terrifies us to realize that our “goodness” might be bad. It terrifies us to realize that equal doesn’t mean equity. It terrifies us that by saying “I don’t see colour, I see humans” we being racist. We are denying the truth of the diversity between us. It terrifies us to acknowledge that our world view is one of white supremacy and that there are other world views and ways of being different from ours. Maybe better than ours. Most CERTAINLY better than this mess we’re in. And it terrifies us to even try to start to participate in the conversation, to realize we’re going to get it wrong, we’re going to get called out, we’re going to be uncomfortable.

Being anti-racist requires us to acknowledge our own racism.

The other day in a meeting, I made a seemly benign statement, a casual turn of phrase, a colloquialism, RACISM that I won’t repeat here because I don’t want to perpetuate the harm I’ve already cause. As soon as the words came out, I heard myself and immediately wanted to swallow my words. What’s worse, is I didn’t acknowledge it or apologize. I let it slide. I thought “maybe no one noticed.” I laughed awkwardly. I moved on. I thought “I have the territorial acknowledgement in my email signature” like that somehow gives me a fucking pass. It was wrong and I’ve thought about it often since. I’ve thought about how I don’t want to be a person who uses statements or phrases that do harm, no matter how benign they may seem to be to me. Make no mistake, usually when something seems benign to you but harmful to another, it’s because you don’t even know what it means. I used a phrase in passing about something sacred. I used it wrongly. And I let it slide.

These small daily actions and missteps, unchecked lead to white women like Amy Cooper using her white power to endanger the life of a man simply because he is Black. I can sit here and say “I would never do what Amy Cooper did” and I fucking well hope not. But I also know, deep in my soul, that as long as I hide behind my “niceness” I am not doing the work that needs to be done. Until we talk about our racism we can never dismantle the systems it upholds. Until we let go, we cannot find a new way forward. The longer we all say “I would never do that” the longer we’re upholding the fallacy that being “nice” means we’re not racist.

We can all acknowledge the appalling and abhorrent situation that happened to Christian Cooper. And yet, I am observing all us white woman scrambling to distance ourselves from the Amy Cooper’s of the world. For years, I hid away that poem about being ashamed of being white. I tried to distance myself from my own racism, not by facing it, acknowledging it, humbly opening myself to learning to be different in the world but by stuffing it in a closet. Not so different than hiding a swastika tattoo or a white hood in the closet.

I don’t think it’s helpful for more white women to shout “We aren’t like Amy Cooper”, for white police officers to say “We’re not like Derek Chauvin,” for white men to say “We’re not like Gregory and Travis McMichael.”.

I think the more constructive conversation would be to consider “how are we like them?” for only then can we acknowledge and change our behaviours, one statement and action at time. Only then can we stop letting it slide and learn to be different in the world.

I don’t want to be nice anymore. I want to live in a world where people don’t die because of the colour of their skin. Where the systems and structures themselves uphold antiracist behaviours and approaches instead of holding people down. Where the Christian Coopers can watch birds in Central Park without nearly losing his life. Where the Ahmed Aubreys can go for a run without losing his. Where George Floyd is treated like I would have been by the police. And where every Missing and Murdered Indigenous Woman gets her own damn hashtag and the same kind of urgency care and justice a white woman would.

I’m nice. I’m white. I’m racist. And I am finally willing say that out loud, to get uncomfortable, to look hard in the mirror so I can participate in change – it starts with me.

(Disclaimer: I acknowledge that I’m going to say it wrong and get it wrong and have to learn from that. I’m not going to be a bystander anymore. But if I’ve said it wrong or gotten it wrong, dear People of Colour, I’m here listening and learning.)

WHAM.

I sit in my makeshift office, staring at the wall calendar, near the guest bed near the printer near the boxes of baby clothes to sell donate near the unhung framed certificates, diplomas, degrees and artwork all meant for my home-based office. I sit in the rocker left over from breastfeeding newborn days that I used to sleep in because I didn’t have it in me to get up get into bed close eyes and get up the next moment because babies need to snuggle because co-sleeping was in and out of fashion (“don’t be the mom who smothers her baby….don’t be the mom who doesn’t spoil her baby with attachment…wear your baby, swaddle your baby, sling your baby to and fro…have you tried the new ring-sling-back-breaking-shame-on-you-if-you-don’t-parent-this way for $500 per sling $800 per stroller….?”)

I sit in my makeshift maybe-one-day-the-office-I-dream-of office and look at the calendar that is uncharacteristically empty and repeat to myself “just breathe.”

In the days of COVID-19, day 50-some-odd, week 8 or something, I have become something I never dreamed and everything I dreamed. I’m a working mother. (I’ve always been a working mother even before I became a mother-mother.) I’m a stay-at-home mother. I’m a WHAM…WAHM? WHAM, I’m a freaking W.ork-A.t-H.ome M.other who also somehow needs to workandhomeschoolandcookandcleanandcomfortandandandandand.

This is not my dream. (Just breathe.)

When he came home today, I was in the kitchen, preparing a supper I’m not particularly proud off (meatloaf, roast potatoes, salad) and I don’t particularly care about, holding back tears, holding back resentments, holding back thoughts like “this is not my dream.” But it’s what a mother does. It’s what the parent at home with the kids does. It’s what he did when he was the parent at home with the kids during our “challenge the patriarchy true co-parenting” time that didn’t last because: “a man’s gotta work” (not his words, but his fathersfathersfathersbrothersfriendscoworkers). Hold back. Just breathe. It’s what a woman does, isn’t it? Makes sure the family gets healthy food. Holds back. He’s a good man, and a kind man, but still, the resentments, the tears, and anger – at the patriarchy – build. This is not my dream (should I have another baby? Do we have enough toilet paper? Are my children emotionally scarred by COVIDbymyworkingbymybeingpulledapartattheseams)…Just freaking breathe.

Within a few minutes of his arrival, the struggle juggle continues: an unexpected work call. (Yippee!) I feign guilt and say “sorry, I have to take this” and head up to this office. Where I sit. Makeshift. 15 minutes of bliss on a call with a work partner about a complicated file. 15 minutes of emerging as my best, most skilled, most competent self. 15 minutes of filling my bucket through giving to others in the best way I know – through my work.

The joy that emerges from the work is salve for the wounds I had been licking. I feel valuable when I work in a way that no other activities give me. And with the joy: true shame, true guilt. But wait, shouldn’t we be grateful?

(Women! You now have been gifted this precious time with your children. What a gift! You can nurture and sew and mend and nourish. Be grateful! You get to truly mother again! Reap the gifts of COVID!)

The pinball machine experience of being a woman in the Days of COVID is only known by the others. The others: the women who have always been the women who do all the things. The women who have always held together society while silently being pulled apart. The women who have quietly bandaged, nurtured, tidied and paid the bills with unpaid labour. The women who once had no voices and held back. The women who eventually used their voices, perhaps at first tentatively, fearfully, with a whisper and an apology…and then later with hands-on-hips, shoulders back (like a superhero) saying “things must change…#metoo…fuck this bullshit…equal pay, equal rights…” The women who see the other women who see the other women who are holding back and say: “it’s ok, I see you, keep talking.”

Women have always been holding back (tears, sweat, resentment, pleasures…) until they haven’t. And when women decide something needs to change, things change. When women decide to raise up other women, women rise. When women decide to do.all.the.things they are superheros. The women who work. The women who nurture. The women who dream of making meatloaf and roast potatoes and the women who dream of blazers and board rooms and the women who dream of pen-to-paper and the women who dream and dream and dream.

WOMEN. Don’t hold back.

I sit in the rocker that used to be for breastfeeding. I take a deep breath. I muster. I walk to my calendar to mark the passing of another day like the day before yet entirely different, I write yet another “todo” on the todotodotodonevertogetdone list. I sit at my computer and I write (my deepest heart’s desire my whole life).

There’s a knock at the door: “Mommy, I want to be with you.”

“Buddy, I want to be with you too. I’ll be out in 5 minutes.”

And when I get downstairs, the dinner in burnt, the kids are crying and the laundry I folded today is strewn about the house, he is already exasperated (30 mins home) with home-life without me (30 minutes, but when I complain about 12 hours+/day 5+days per week I am told “be grateful!”)

And when I get downstairs, my kids hug me and dinner is ready to eat. He slipped seamlessly into the co-parenting role we are always in negotiation about, WILL always be in negotiation about until we all keep talking, and listening, and seeing.

(I see you. Just breathe.)

An Open Letter to My Dear Friends, past present and future:

In loving memory of our dear friend, Palmira.

Dearest Friends,

Life has brought us together at different times, for different reasons, depths and periods.  Life has also moved us apart at different times, for different reasons, depths and periods.  Some of us have woven our lives together, like roots of neighbouring trees.  We intersect, lean, and hug one another all twisted and dependent for survival.  Some of us have moved together briefly, like birds flocking on the same gusty paths one season, but eventually blown apart, moving on different gusts of wind leading us in differing directions.  Some of us have yet to collide, but I can feel myself moving toward you like a magnet to metal and I can’t wait to connect.

To my sweet past friends:

Sometimes we’ve slowly and quietly drifted apart.  Sometimes we have pushed and pulled ever so forcefully apart.  We’ve fought apart.  We’ve let go, gently, harshly, purposefully, or even, accidentally.  We’ve shared laughter and tears as all friends do.  We’ve stumbled home arm in arm singing “Stand by Me” at the top of our lungs.  We’ve kissed on New Years.  We’ve kissed on every other day of the year – for love, for lust or just…because we could.  We’ve hugged and held each other through painful losses and fulfilling gains.  We’ve bruised each other.  We’ve walked hand-in-hand down corridors, hallways and streets.  We’ve pushed each other’s bruises, just for fun, asking “does it hurt when I push here?”  We’ve shared things and people – sometimes other friends, sometimes clothes, sometimes crushes and, even, lovers.  We’ve made horrendous mistakes with each other.  We’ve made horrendous mistakes to each other.  We’ve slung hurtful words like mud on each other’s faces.  We’ve spit in each others faces, then laughed, hurtfully and slowly, together and happily.  We’ve hurt each other, then bandaged ourselves up.  We’ve played dress-up together as children and adults.  We’ve been amazingly silly together.  We’ve laughed until we’ve peed.  We’ve cried until we’ve laughed.  We’ve taken out anguish on each other, because we thought it was a safe haven: our friendship was forever, you see.  We’ve nourished each other.  We’ve neglected each other.  Maybe one of us turned our back for a moment, distracted by something shiny and new, and suddenly the other was gone.  Maybe one of us purposely walked away, tired and weary for reasons unknown.  Or then, there are those of us who cut the cord openly.  We both knew it was goodbye.  But our connections remain despite time and distance, because we’ve broken bonds to protect each other from heartbreak, we’ve laid ourselves on train tracks for each other.  We’ve broken each other’s hearts.  We’ve taken contacts out of each others drunken eyes, even when those eyes have strayed.  We’ve ridden our bikes so fast we thought our lungs would burst.  We’ve shared paper-bagged lunches.  We’ve talked and talked and talked and talked.  Who knew people could talk SO much.  We’ve given each other our last Skittle, because that’s what friends do.  We’ve wiped sweat, tears and vomit for each other, from each other.  We’ve held pony-tailed heads out of toilets, we’ve rubbed backs and brows, kissed cheeks and lips.  We’ve loved at our most vulnerable.  We’ve had fun, damnit.  We’ve become ourselves despite of each other, with each other…because of each other.

Perhaps we are now so very far away from each other, living on different continents…in different worlds.  Perhaps you are just a quick jaunt away from me, but we move in and out of one another’s orbit now, without touching, laughing, talking.  But know this, dear friend: I am me because of you.  You have made my life so much sweeter.  You have taught me lessons no one else could have.  We’ve seen each other at our worst, but I only remember your best.  You are lovely and loved.  For you, I am grateful.  If I never see your smiling face, or hug your wonderful body again, know that you have made me, me.

To my present:

You are like presents to me.  Every day I get to see you brightens my life.  Friendship is no longer convenient, as it once was.  We have to work at it.  Life moves us on and on and on and on never leaving time, it seems, for a cup of tea and a long talk.  But we make time and is it ever worth it.  We’ve come to know friendship from the discerning eye of a landscaper.  We’re no longer wildflowers popping up in fields at will – we’ve been carefully chosen, pruned and fertilized.  We have grown together through the worst life has been able to throw our way.  We’ve weathered storms.  We’ve twisted our way around obstacles and strong gales, like arbutus trees, to thrive together, in spite of life’s unending hurricanes of challenges.  We spend less time playing dress-up and more time trudging through piles of laundry, but with broad smiles and open hearts, we’ve let life strip away the charades.  We embrace.  We laugh until we pee.  We talk it out – no matter what the topic.  You help me be a better version of myself.  We are our true authentic selves without fear of being judged.  We are stripped down and wide open.  We’ve learned the hard way how precious authentic friendships are.  We’ve chosen one another with care.  We will not let go easily.

Dearest future friend:

I don’t know when we will meet.  Perhaps it’ll be when one of us is at our worst.  Or maybe we’ll be at our best.  Regardless, I promise you this: I will be true.  I will be warm.  I will not always be easy.  I will not always say or do the right thing.  I may not agree with you all of the time.  You may not like some parts of me.  But I will love you honestly.  I will try to make you laugh until you pee.  I will do stupid things.  Some will make you laugh, others will make you mad.  We can talk and talk and talk and talk and wonder how anyone could talk for so long.  I don’t know how long we’ll be friends for, but I know this: I will be me and you will be you.  We will bring something, though there’s no telling what that something might be, into one another’s lives.  We will learn from each other in some way.  We will smile.  We will probably drink tea or wine or both.  We will become our future selves because of one another and it will be good.

To Palmira:

So many words have been said of you these past weeks.  Every single word is true.  I will not repeat them.  Although it’s been a very long time since we’ve hugged and laughed together, knowing I will not get this chance again leaves a broken place inside me.  It breaks me to think we take for granted that “next chance” to catch up with an old friend.  For us, that next time never came.  But every moment I become aware of this broken place, it is immediately filled with everything so wonderful that you brought into this world – as though it is you gently reminding me to see the light in the world, to shrug off the negative like you so often did.  You leave behind so many beautiful lessons for all who have known you.  What you’ve taught me should not be diminished by my inadequate command of language, but at its core is this: do not care what others think of you.  Love yourself.  Love everyone around you.  Smile.  HUG like you mean it.  Do things that make your heart sing.  Makes choices that make the world around you – immediately, mildly, or immensely – a better place.  Do not be afraid to have adventures.  Do not be afraid to be you.  Wear cardigans.  And finally, when you think of someone you care for: connect.  When you remember an old friend, send them a message so they know you think of them.  When you think something positive about someone: tell them.  Move forward, embrace the world in front of you, and always remember where you came from.

With love,

Darby

Welcome Home

It’s been a while.  I guess you could say I’ve been busy.  Anything I could list here as a reason for my lack of posts would fall into the “excuse” category, although all would be legitimate and true.  None of it really matters…well, it ALL matters, I just know that writing about it here doesn’t.  I’ve been on hiatus for a variety of excellent reasons.  I remind myself my true intent in embarking into the blogisphere – to do whatever I want within these text boxes.  To expand, to shrink, to explore, to just be.  So in being absent, I’ve still been around in spirit – just focusing my energies elsewhere.

As we sit in our post-endoftheworldnotactuallyending lives, I see the focus shifting to New Year’s and all that comes with it – indulgence, review of the year just passed, taking stock, solidifying resolutions for the year to come – I find myself at peace with the moment.  I have adventures to come, I’ve had adventures this past year.  This coming year will be like no other – as each accumulated year is in its own right unique.

I tend to be overly planful.  If I have any resolution this year, it’s to languish in each and every moment for what it is and avoid spending too much time focusing on the past and the future.  To take it all in, be grateful for what I have, where I am, who I am with in each and every minute.  To recognize challenges as important lessons that will enrich and nourish me.  To be humbled and appreciative.  To laugh, to smile, and to drink it all in.  To, as much as possible, know how blessed I am and to pay it forward wherever and whenever possible.

 

 

 

Just Be.

I’ve stopped to smell the roses.  To watch the sunset.  To breathe in life all around me.  To self-indulge in the healthiest of ways: sleep well, eat well, be well, be present.  Pause.  Let go of achievement. Let go of efforting toward a goal.  Let go of the need to please.  Just pause.

Stress has become the popularized curse-word of our society.  Stress-this.  Stress-that.  But stress is no joke and it is linked to nearly every unhealthy counterproductive high-risk behaviour out there.  Over-eating.  Under-eating.  Over-cleaning.  Under-cleaning.  Over & under exercising.  Over and under indulging…achieving…being.

We are goal oriented people in a goal oriented society.  We glamourize high risk behaviours such as addiction leading people to achieve via self-destruction.  We encourage obsession, leading to a world full of overly anxious, self-conscious, over-achieving individuals who never feel anything we do is quite enough.  We don’t feel we work hard enough, play hard enough, exercise hard enough, so we end up doing them all WAY TOO HARD, tear our bodies and minds apart in the process and wonder why we still feel crappy despite doing everything “right.”

We forget to just be.  Be in the process.  Accept the journey of life.  Be present.  Accept that as long as we keep running after arbitrary goals and achievements whose reward will be a mere fleeting moment of self-satisfaction before we launch ourselves into the oblivion of yet another achievement-focused path we will never ever get the opportunity to enjoy life as it is, right here and right now.

I am teaching myself to be.

This is much more complex than it may seem.  I’m pausing.  Soaking it in.  Remembering that the moments where I laugh until my belly hurts, hug a friend in need, snuggle with my love and my pooch are the moments that truly count.  These are the moments I will remember and cherish for the rest of my life.  Not one of my achievements now or ever will measure up to the love, the friendship, and the laughter I have filled my life with.  Life is not the sum of our achievements, it is the matrix of moments we are truly present and appreciative of all we are blessed with.

Progress is received, not achieved, through surrendering to process, peace, and patience.

Just be.  You are perfect.

D

Nostalgie

There are moments, I tell you.  These moments when the world falls away and we remember who we were before we became who we are.  There’s this impressive forward motion to humanity: we are encouraged to move forward, to progress, and to be present.  We are encouraged to avoid rumination over regrets of our past.  For some, this leads to the forward momentum of avoidance – of regrets, disappointments, embarrassment, heart-break.  You can see it like the quick dash of a rabbit avoiding a predator – zigging and zagging all over the place.

But then there are these beautiful and bittersweet moments where we are so happy where we are in the here and now, that we are able to feel the beautiful nostalgia of where we once were.  Regrets and grudges be gone, we are here because of where we were and true nostalgia allows us to pay respect.  I say, live in the moment, but leave a little room for nostalgia over the past and much hope for the future.

I’ve recently been propelled into my youth via the conduit of music.  Somehow, suddenly and without notice, I encountered music that holds a special place in my heart and reminds me of everything I was and hoped to be as a teenager.  That tumultuous time where we are so consumed with hormones, driven by emotion, and utterly and completely confused (despite the belief we “know it all,” quite literally).  I’ve spent the last 12 years distancing myself from my adolescence.  I’m not sure why.  I think we all feel confused and emotional during our adolescence.  I was so ready to move beyond that time in my life I fear I dashed out friendships and relationships too quickly.  I wanted to travel, to explore, and to break free of all of the cliched stereotypes engulfing me.

In any case, somehow moving beyond my 20’s into my 30’s has marked a significant forward movement for me.  A freeing, of sorts.  I didn’t know what to expect, but somehow, somewhere, I found peace.  I’ve heard this is common.  Here I am, a cliche yet again!  In any case,  I’m here, and I am me.  Somehow I’ve spent the last 20 years trying to get here.  I remember so many journal entries about wanting to be in a place feeling exactly as I am, with people around me who love me for all of me.  And here I am!  ME!  What a weird feeling after 20 years of struggling to be here, and to be me.  But I’ve come to learn that self-love is the only way to end up in a place where we are surrounded by people who are loving, kind, accepting, and love us unconditionally.  Self-love is truly the only way to be the people we want to be.

I suppose arriving at ourselves allows us to be grateful for the influences of those who propelled us forward, who shaped us, who challenged us (however painful the challenges may have been), and who hurt us.  All of the turmoil and (oft, self-inflicted) pain of youth and early adulthood teach us how to pick ourselves up and move forward.  By looking back with an open heart we can consider those we may have hurt and hope only they too have found themselves exactly where they want to be, looking back with fondness and nostalgia.

Here’s to looking back with a smile…

-D

Summer’s Fall

“you are my sweetest downfall.”  – Regina Spektor

for the autumn comes
and so, thoughts of you
in those thick sunshine spills
ever-moving heat stains,
the remains of summer
on the cold wood floors
a favourite
for cat naps
and cold feet

the fall is a
sweet transgression
of silence and truth
though history
won’t mention
my mistakes, or yours
but will omit, transpose, distract
the details
and the story will be sweet

because in the ochre of autumn
the tragedy of love
is hypocrisy, irony, philanthropy
and we become
martyrs of our own
devices, cat naps, and cold feet.

© Copyright 2006.  Darby M. Eakins, all rights reserved.

What Did You Do Today?

I’ve started and stopped a post every day for the last couple of weeks.  There’s been a lot on my mind and I’ve been struggling to express it all.  I feel I’ve been overwhelmingly overflowing with thoughts and ideas, but have taken a step back to observe.  The words observe, process, and progress have stuck at the forefront of my brain for the last couple of weeks.  Then, I was listening to a talk by Gabrielle Bernstein and she was challenging the idea that personal self-growth is a time-limited event…some goal we reach for and attain at some point.  To those people saying “well I’ve done XYZ to grow spiritually and as a person, I’m done, I’ve grown, yay me!” Gabrielle says “What Did You Do Today?”  Bam.  That hit home and brought all these thoughts together.

On Process
In yoga, we are focused on the process NOT the goal.  The goal is the process.  To me, this is yet another perfect analogy of yoga to life.  Perfection in yoga is being present, focused, aware and respectful of exactly where we are at in this moment.  The old adage “it’s about the journey, not the destination” is true no matter how cliché it may be.  We get to our destinations by participating in the journey, there is just no way around it.  The lessons learned don’t come on the day we walk in our caps and gowns across a stage, “graduation” in all its various forms is simply a symbol of the process.

One of my yoga instructors last week said “forget the plan you showed up with today.  Where are you now, in this moment?”  This opened an opportunity for a personal breakthrough for me, because I had shown up with a plan.  I do show up with plans.  And when plans go astray, my biggest challenge is to let go and roll with it.  I always set my intentions for the class at its commencement.  Planning is a good thing, but the plans can take us over.  We can lose touch with our needs in each moment when we perseverate too deeply on the all powerful plan.  We obsess about things happening according to plan, and miss out on the lessons of the process.  In this moment, I realized I had misinterpreted the purpose behind “setting intentions” in yoga.  In setting my intentions, my ego was getting the better of me.  I would say to myself: “My intention for this class is to do every pose without falling out of any posture” or “My intention for class is to work as hard as I possibly can for the full 90 minutes.”  But when I became fatigued later in the class and my body was telling me to pull back slightly, my ego would berate me for losing touch with my intention.  But that’s counterproductive.  Being mean to myself about “failing” in the last posture certainly isn’t helping me focus in the moment on the next one.  Instead, a more helpful intention for me is to say “My intention for class is to be in each moment fully and listen to my body and allow it to do the work it needs to do.  Respect where I am in each moment.  Focus on my breath.  Be here now.”  Once my intention was set to be present here now in each and every moment, on and off the yoga mat, the process revealed itself to me and breakthroughs started to occur.

On Progress
The process becomes progress when we let go and observe.  Interestingly, in yoga as in life, the biggest bursts of my own progress seem to come immediately after a time when things didn’t go according to my plan.  The challenges and barriers arise in the process, and suddenly, we learn something.  In yoga, it always seems breakthroughs in postures (going deeper, for longer, reaching closer to the ideal form of the posture) come after a difficult class.  My body faces the challenges and opens itself to them.  Progress happens in challenge and process.  In life, it’s when I don’t perform well at something that I progress, because I am blessed with opportunities to learn (as long as I can see it for the opportunity it is and don’t fall into a pit of egotistic despair at how atrocious I am as a human being).

Competency is the opposite of progress.  In life, I’d rather receive the “most improved” ribbon than the “#1” ribbon.  Most improved means I’m progressing.  Fighting against the process, avoiding things that are difficult because we don’t want to look stupid, only doing things we are competent at, and being cruel to ourselves when we don’t “do the best” only serves to stall the progress of the process.  The challenge isn’t about improving, that part will happen naturally simply when we keep working at something.  The challenge comes from allowing  ourselves to be in the process.  It’s often the case that yoga students like to avoid postures that are particularly difficult because they “can’t do it right” and they look forward to the postures that come naturally or with ease.  But it’s the difficult postures that bring about the most progress in our health, well being, and yoga practice.  The same goes for life.  When I was in grade 3 we used “Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing” to learn how to type.  This is way back when the internet didn’t exist in day-to-day life and we had computer labs that we visited once per week, not lap tops on each desk.   I stayed on the “home row” (asdfghjkl) for as long as I possibly could because I was good at it.  My speed was amazing.  I managed to get away with this for a number of weeks, looking as though I was really an amazing typist.  I felt great, but also a little like a cheat…because that’s what I was.  When I finally ventured beyond the “home row,” I didn’t look as awesome as I once did, but it wasn’t until I challenged myself to participate in the process and expand onto the harder keys that I improved my skills.

As another example, let’s take academia.  Students (myself included, at one point) will berate themselves when their thesis proposals or manuscripts come back with revisions.  I remember the first time I received a paper back chalk full of “track changes” and my undergrad supervisor’s comments and deletion/insertions all over the paper.  I was devastated.  Now I recognize the immense value of the red corrections all over my page.  It was part of the process.  I wasn’t a failure as a student, I was simply participating in the process.  No one becomes a tenured professor without participating in the process themselves.  We go to school to learn, but too often students confuse this with perform.  We are not in school to prove our perfection, we are in school to learn, which is a process that allows us to progress.  Yesterday, I received my thesis proposal draft back from my supervisor with quite a few comments and queries from him on areas for me to improve my writing.  8 years ago, this might have devastated me.  Today, it makes me thrilled at the opportunity to progress.

On Observation
Observation has been a theme for me these past few weeks.  On the mat, I’ve been focusing on calm observation of each moment as opposed to the emotional and psychophysiological turmoil that can sometimes occur when we are working hard or struggling with something.  Ego likes to mess us up and have our “monkey mind” work against us while we try to progress.  But instead of progress, we simply end up with struggle.  Once I was able to let go and detach, I’ve found myself progressing in areas of previous struggle in leaps and bounds.  In a particularly difficult posture in yoga, where I may have once become frustrated and upset with myself and my body, I now push myself to the limit and stay there, breathe, and stay calm.  I do not go beyond my limit no matter what my ego tells me to do.  It doesn’t matter that the person beside me is far deeper in the posture.  It doesn’t matter that I wish I was deeper in the posture.  None of that matters.  I simply stay where I am, and allow myself to be in this moment.  When we go beyond our limit, we often end up injuring ourselves or losing the benefit of the process because our bodies let us down (since we’ve let our body down by pushing it too hard.)  I think this works in life as well.  We must know what our limit is and go there, but stay there.  Do not go beyond it.  Simply observe our reactions, our feelings, our inner and outer struggles and stay here.  Work through the process toward progress.  It’s the observation and awareness of ourselves that allow us to do this.  Do not struggle and blame.  In yoga: the heat, the wrong towel or outfit, not having drank enough water, the instructor talking too fast, the annoying person beside us.  In life: the barista making our coffee wrong, the traffic, our spouses, our friends, our bosses, our workloads, etc.  The list of blame goes on and on and on.  Chaos happens, it’s a fact of life.  It’s also a fact that while planning and being organized can be a helpful coping mechanism to improve productivity, it does not control the chaos.  The difference between coping with chaos and allowing the chaos to take us over is the ability to observe each moment calmly and give in to the process.  Forget about the goals, and focus on the process.  One foot in front of the other, one tree stand per day.

What Did You Do Today?
Gabrielle Bernstein helped me pull together these thoughts on process, progress, and observation by reminding me that any kind of growth is not a goal, it’s a journey.  Sure, having goals and ideals and plans can be a helpful thing to keep us on track, but it’s today that matters.  Reminding ourselves to work each day to be our best selves is the best thing we can do.  Throw the plans out the window.  Or keep them, but remind yourself that it’s a guideline, not a rule book.  Be where you are in each moment and observe yourself, observe your environment, and do what you need to do in each moment to be your best self and care for yourself.  It’s not about what you did last year.  It’s not about what you are going to do next year.  What did you do today?  What are you doing right now?  It’s the process.  It’s progress.

We stand in awe of the perfection and beauty in the process of a sunset, without recognizing it as such. A simple process of life, the world turning, day becoming night. This is not a goal to achieve, but is perfection nonetheless.

Gust.

 as sailors go,
we’d surely fail:
for grasping hands & hair
after crossword
completions exploits
our attentiveness.
so, sails would
sway and spin so
surly and sinful,
we are,
without
twisting words entangled
on the page
and twisted tales
within our hearts
imploding with
a touch of wind
on the horizon.

© Copyright 2008.  Darby M. Eakins.

aiming to see…

I’ve resisted being here, in this moment, writing this post.  Deep down, I’ve desired it – another venue to express the ongoing dialogue ravaging my ever-shifting neural pathways.  An outlet, a place to yell at the top of my lungs and to be quiet & contemplative.  But being here also means that I must acknowledge the egoism inherent in exposition.  Writing a blog, a public journal, begs the question of whether journaling is ever, has ever been, private.  Is it possible that my 13-year-old self scrawling in my journal had a sense that I was writing for someone else’s eyes?  I’ve since trashed the journals of my adolescence (who wants to carry that kind of baggage around?).  But I question whether every writer has, in the back of her mind, the knowledge that once a word is on paper, it is inherently public.  In this case, “online journaling” seems to call attention to the public nature of the written word.  It slaps in the face any convention that writing can be a private endeavor.

I’m digressing already.  Man, off to a bad start here.  Where was I?  Ego…right…I have one.  We all do.  I’ve tried to deny this in the past.  It’s essentially unbecoming.  The more you try to stave off egoism, the more people seem to find you egotistical.  It’s all very circular.  I guess there is a part of me that’s remained convicted to the notion that to purposefully write in a public forum is subscribing to the masturbation of the ego.  A form of masturbation I vehemently wanted to avoid:  “Let’s see how many awesome actuations of alliteration I can achieve in another affront of the english language.  Man, I feel good about myself.  I’m awesome.  I wonder how many people will read this.  I better go count…”  Gross.

So let’s be clear.  That’s not why I’m here.  But I do acknowledge my ego’s part in all of this.  Being here is decidedly an exploration for me.  “Let’s see where this pathway goes…”  Basically, I’m a writer (you have no idea how long it’s taken me to identify myself as a writer despite that I’ve been writing for over 20 years.  It still makes me a little uncomfortable.  I’m probably blotchy and red.  This happens when I’m nervous.  Thank goodness you can’t see me.)  Let’s try again: I like to write.  I write stuff sometimes.  I write.

Historically, I wrote in my journal.  From the age of 13 – 18 it was classic teen artsy-angst that I felt was unique and brazen and gently brilliant and insightful all at once.  I fantasized about the postmortem discovery of my journals whereby my deepest and most mysterious thought patterns would be eloquently revealed with a following collective “ah ha” moment for all those whose lives were intertwined with mine.  Let’s be honest, an ongoing monologue of the life and times of the teenage me is absolutely as un-fascinating as it gets.  Hence, when I attempted to shuffle through these journals in the last year I cringed and felt a little nauseous when I considered the idea that someone – ANYone might ever read the revealing profane thoughts of my adolescent self.  So being here is a little daunting – people are going to read this crap?  Who am I doing this for anyways?  I’ve had this blog since July and I’ve yet to “go public” with it.  It’s almost November.  The fear of rejection prevails.  So I’ve made myself a few rules:

1) If I’m not writing for me then I don’t write.  This comes with the acknowledgement that there is inherent publicity in this manner of writing, but that I”m not here to “wow” a crowd.  I’m here for my own self-preservation.

2) If no one reads this but me, that’s okay.  Might even be great.

3) Get over yourself.  That’s directed at me, not you.  I’m here to get over myself through self-expression.  Everyone unloads into the universe in different ways.  This is going to be one of my ways.

4) Delusions of grandeur be gone.

5) Have fun.  This is a general life goal of mine these days so I’m attempting to apply it to anything and everything I do.

Welcome to my space.

-D.