That Perfect Riddle

I just awoke from a nap, and though I'm not sure it was in my dream, per se, the following was what was swirling in my head as I awoke:

"Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

This particular riddle is a curious one from Alice in Wonderland that has been oft cited as having had no answer when Lewis Carroll penned it.  (And isn't it fascinating indeed how literature we love frequently often poses the most interesting questions for us to answer or to let percolate as we ponder?)

The Mad Hatter poses this riddle to Alice soon after she joins his unbirthday tea party by accident in Wonderland, and then he turns it on her as she roots around in her mind for the answer:



There are some funny, witty, or at least cheeky answers to this riddle that people on the Internet have come up with over the years, but the consensus appears to be that Lewis Carroll really had no answer in mind when he originally inserted the riddle into his story (though he later placated his questioning readers with a relatively unsatisfying answer, in my humble opinion).

Here's a link to a short piece I stumbled upon on that point:  https://io9.gizmodo.com/5872014/the-answer-to-the-most-famous-unanswerable-fantasy-riddle

Curiouser and curioser, as Alice would say.

It's funny, though.  This question has come up in my house many times over the years, each time referenced as being an answerless riddle... to connote silliness... just for the pure nonsensical quality of it.   

And while we're on the topic of the Mad Hatter, an aside is in order, I think:

I once participated in a non-profit arts organization year-long board training experience in Dallas called Leadership Arts Institute.  And at the culmination of a year's worth of blood, sweat, and tears I poured into that work in the arts community in Dallas, we had a graduation ceremony of sorts.  And each of us in Leadership Arts was tasked with coming up with a creative graduation hat and giving a short speech to the group of us who participated.  I was the chair of the steering committee that led our project, so I felt I had to wield that authority I'd been gifted by my peers responsibly and thoughtfully, in a way that might even move them.  In short, I felt obligated to say something lovely about the unforgettable group of people I worked with who helped my crazy vision of our project come to fruition.  So I found a gigantic Mad Hatter hat that I wore, and I said this in my speech to the crowd:




The Hatter:  “Have I gone mad?"

Alice: “I’m afraid so. You’re entirely bonkers. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are." 



(And I think it almost invariably should be read in a British accent.)

Here's a more polished version:



Perhaps the raven riddle is pure charming madness.  And because a little madness may be one of the most wonderful things about a person, I probably would be satisfied if that were the answer.

But then shortly after I awoke from my nap with the raven riddle swirling in my head, I serendipitously saw this American Indian horoscope link a friend posted on Facebook as I mindlessly scrolled for a few moments after I awoke.  It said my horoscope (appearing to correspond with Libra dates) was the Raven.  It also said my best time of day is between 3 and 5 p.m.  (I'll note for you that I was, in fact, born during this window, for starters.)  It described the Raven as follows (perhaps at least some of this is accurate):  "Highly enthusiastic and a natural entrepreneur the Raven is quite the charmer.  As a Raven, you possess a type of easy energy that everyone relies on.  As a Raven, you are quite the idealist but also calculating at the same time.  Under positive circumstances, the Raven is very easy going, romantic, and almost invariably soft-spoken.  In relationships, the Raven is intuitive and patient."  Another website, corroborating that I am a Raven, said that "Raven people are highly clairvoyant and see real magic in all things.  Though indecisive, a Raven's love, once gifted, is the truest of trues.  On this turn of the medicine wheel, Raven's lesson is to gain a more balanced emotional life."

So I think today I've come up with what I find is a satisfying answer to the raven riddle, and it is this: that both a raven and a writing desk are something beautiful upon which to write.

That Perfect Film That Will Leave You in Tears

I was awake until a little after 2 a.m. last night, curled up with my cats, watching a film.  Call Me By Your Name.  I've been wanting to watch it since I learned about it in advance of the Oscars, but I haven't turned on a television other than to watch something with my kids in probably a month.  Or perhaps more.  Wow.  maybe it's been two.  I've been exhausted to the bone with just Life, and I haven't had it in me to absorb anything emitted from a TV.

But I'm so glad I finally watched this film.  It won an Oscar for best adapted screenplay this year, and it was nominated for best picture and best actor.  And a song from the film was nominated for best song.  Not that any of the nominations really matter, except to say that it got a lot of attention.  And when I finally watched it?  It arrested mine.

It was such a beautiful portrait of love.  The messy, scary, uncomfortable, mind-scrambling nature of it.  And also the sheer joy, drug-like, that commandeers hearts and minds when it burrows in.

First, the song.  The song from the film that was nominated was by Sufjan Stevens entitled Mystery of Love.  I heard it many times before I saw the film, but its placement in the story was so very beautiful.  Perfect even.  Like puzzle pieces falling into place.  This song will surely be on my playlist for a long time to come.  I already had an album by Sufjan Stevens before this that I loved.  His whispery voice (maybe that of a distant cousin of Sam Beam of Iron & Wine) is so calming and yet he sings of real things, sometimes sad things.  Achingly beautiful.



The story itself is a coming of age love story.  And it's told in the most picturesque location in Northern Italy with captivating attention to detail that left me beside myself.  And the tumult, passion, and humanity of it all, in vision and in story, is humbling to behold.  Watch this film.

And I hesitate to include the clip below, but I will.  Admittedly, the clip and the sentence that follows is a bit of a spoiler, but I just can't keep quiet about it.  After an affair of historic proportions and a loss that followed, the professor-father of the main character, Olio, delivers a monologue of epic proportions to soothe his son's heartache.  I totally bawled through it.  (Ignore the subtitles, but at least I found the monologue.) 



I almost feel as if the time I spent waiting to watch something paid off in the quality of what was delivered when I finally did watch something.  If I am assured films of this much beauty will follow after waiting for weeks and weeks to even turn on the television to any adult programming of any kind, maybe I'll wait months again before watching anything else. 

That Perfect Elusive Leprechaun

In 1998, I spent a lot of time in Ireland, not only the locale of the most breathtaking cliffs I've ever seen, but also the homeland of the Leprechaun.  I even saw a sign near a beautiful place called Dingle while I was hiking, and the sign read "Leprechaun Crossing."  Here's the photo I took while I was there:

This year, my daughter planned in advance for months to make a Leprechaun trap in advance of St. Patrick's Day.  So, we had no choice but to make an amazing Leprechaun trap.  She made most of it, but I helped a little (mainly with wrapping the box, er, trap, which was loaded with soft stuff so the Leprechaun couldn't get hurt when he fell in).

She set it out among the clover and flowers in the backyard, sure the elusive Leprechaun would be lured in.  She was absolutely determined to catch him, though I guess she didn't really know what to expect.  But through her dedication and tenacity, she spent hours, all day long, checking her trap in the backyard to see if she'd caught him.  Each time she checked, the trap was empty.  But the joy she took in setting the trap, lovingly crafting it (I mean check out that rainbow), was worth all the effort.  Even if no one else actually appreciated it, I was in awe of how far she went to get what she wanted.  And with such perfect and lovely thought behind it. 

Guess where I'm headed next... you guessed it... the dictionary.  Webster's actually defines Leprechaun (who knew?).  And I think the definition is simple and pretty perfect:

: a mischievous elf of Irish folklore usually believed to reveal the hiding place of treasure if caught.

 

I can't blame her one iota for wanting so badly to catch the Leprechaun.  After all, vast treasures would await her, she was certain.  Alas, she didn't catch him this time... but, not to worry, he left some surprise treasure for her to find.  Not nearly as good as catching him, but treasure is always treasured, of course, in whatever form.  She'll catch him next time. 

That Perfect Childhood Love

My daughter is five years old (almost six).  She has magnetism, a spiritual sixth sense, tremendous empathy, and a contagious giggle.  She has wild hair like her Mom, is so smart and creative, is mischievous and courageous, and even told me this morning about seeing the shape of a hippopotamus in a tutu in her oatmeal.  And nearly everything is transformed into a dramatic dance in her mind, which she then performs just about anywhere when the inspiration strikes her.  She has music coursing through her veins.  Always has.  She's almost too good to believe. 

She has this boyfriend.  In kindergarten.  I know... how can a kindergarten boyfriend be worth writing about here?  All I can say is don't go thinking this is trite or just cute... even Cute with a capital "c".  It's way better than that.

This little boy is so stinking adorable.  And he has the cutest long in the front and short in the back haircut.  They hold hands on field trips.  And I'm sure other times, too.  I have adorable photos to prove it.  It's just beyond precious.  His Mom reached out to me by text a few weeks ago to share those photos and to set up a playdate, and our two kids exchanged videos of themselves jumping up and down for joy via Mom texts in anticipation of the playdate.  They've had just the one playdate so far, but he lives only a few blocks away (with a park in between), so there will be many more to come.  And his older brother is my son's age, and they were in their TAG class together last year before my son switched schools this year. 

I went to read books to their class this morning at the beginning of the day, and when my daughter pointed at me from her classroom table as he sat next to her, and she told him I am her Mom, his jaw dropped and he just stared at me.  And then he came and sat right by me while I read.  And no less than five kids told me they were boyfriend and girlfriend when I was sitting patiently waiting for morning routines to be done before I began reading to all the kids on the reading rug.  I just smiled each time and said, "I know."  I've heard about him for months.  And knew my daughter considers him to be her boyfriend.  But I never expected this....

So, I had the pleasure of meeting his family tonight at an event at my daughter's school.  And I got teary just now remembering the conversation I had with his Mom.  She said her son has been talking about my daughter since the school year began in August and that he says all the time that he is going to marry her.  He has been begging to have a playdate with her for months.  He also refuses to hold his Mom's hand anymore (he's six...) because he only wants to hold my daughter's.  His Mom then told me that she said to him, "Well, what if she's not around?  You can hold my hand then, right?"  And he said, "No, she would know."  And I knew in my belly that he was right somehow.  My daughter would know because she just knows things.  His Mom also asked him what he likes about my daughter.  And do you know what he said?  "Mom... we're just the same."  He found his kindred spirit and he's sure of it.  And he's six. 

I am so moved beyond belief at seeing this pure adoration and love for my precious girl.  And how she just shines when she talks about him.  Siiiiiiiiiiiigh.  💗

That Perfect Grace

Grace is one of my deeply favorite words.  I admire those with it.  I aspire to embody it.  I am moved to give it.  And I am so thankful when it's my turn to receive it.

I think falling from grace (or perceived grace) in life, as they say, brings about our finding actual grace within ourselves, at least if we have the presence and wisdom to recognize that is what is needed for healing, for growth, for peace.  We have to spend time in the valley before we can appreciate the view from the top.  I think it was Glennon Doyle who wrote about the valley.  And grace is the greatest gift.

But, ha.  Don't get me wrong.  I get frustrated sometimes, just like you.  I get impatient and obsessive sometimes.  I probably say fuck too much, maybe more than you, and in any event more than you think I do.  I totally overthink things if given too much time.  I am not afraid of the dark, and, in fact, I even happily dwell there sometimes (but in such a good way... at least I think so).  I can be a tad difficult and perfectionistic (unachievable, I know... you don't have to tell me, but I'm still gonna try).  I probably work too hard as a result.  My body is so much more broken than I ever like to admit.  I can be profound, but also profane (but isn't some combination of the two required to keep things lively and inspiring?).  In short, I have my faults, and I know it.  But under it all, there's an abiding grace I am able to find or summon time and time again.  A river that flows through the varied rest of me.

Definitions always provide deeper insight.  So here we go.

Grace, as defined by Webster's (pruned and with a few left out... because who would have expected grace, as a noun, to have eight different definitions?):

1    a : unmerited divine assistance given to humans for their regeneration or sanctification

      b : a virtue coming from God

      c : a state of sanctification enjoyed through divine assistance

2    a : approval, favor

      b : archaic : mercy, pardon 

      c : a special favor : privilege

      d : disposition to or an act or instance of kindness, courtesy, or clemency

      e : a temporary exemption : reprieve

3    a : a charming or attractive trait or characteristic

      b : a pleasing appearance or effect : charm

      c : ease and suppleness of movement or bearing

                                 ...

8    a : sense of propriety or right

      b : the quality or state of being considerate or thoughtful 

And it's our own situatedness and perspective that impacts what form grace will take in our lives at a given time, in a given chapter.  And how it will transform us.   

We can be givers of grace.  Or, of course, we can be on the receiving end of grace.  And if we're especially tuned into the deeper levels and importance of real connection and beauty, we can have the presence of heart and mind to recognize how we both give it and receive it.  There's almost nothing more beautifully human than that combination.  

On giving grace.  It's hard to give grace sometimes, when we've been tested.  When things feel wrong or toxic.  When something done to us feels unforgivable.  When we recoil.  When our patience has completely dried up and withered.  It's not for the faint of heart.  But when we overcome the urge to fight, to yell, to belittle, when we let harsh words roll off of us and away without absorbing them... in short, when we just give grace anyway, even in the face of undeserving behavior, we realize that it is our very constitution that drives us to be compassionate, to think of the ripple effects of everything we do, and to be strong throughout.  And we are grateful for the strength and peaceful tenacity we can hold on to, which allows us to give grace, even when parts of us viscerally don't want to.  Sometimes, it requires painful patience.  Intolerable tolerance.  Even when it's the hardest it's ever been, and even when we're scared of too many things to name, it still feels right to give grace.  To emit some constant light, even in the dark.  Especially in the dark.  At bottom, we are all human and deserve grace, especially when we fall, that we might learn ourselves how to show it to someone else when it counts.  And our children are watching all that we do.  So it matters.  Sometimes we, too, learn by example, even as weary old adults.  I have certain special people in my life who have modeled grace for me over the years.  I am lucky in that way.  And grateful and so moved that I can recognize it when it unfolds before me.  Sometimes, though, we learn how to give it the hard way.  When we desperately wish at every eleventh hour for grace to be shown to us, but it doesn't come.  And we are alone in the loneliest of ways.  That, too, is a lesson that can change us for the better.  To give what we wish we'd had.  To give reprieve we so needed and didn't get in our darkest hours.  But... if we only give, we can become empty after a while.  And we can tell when we are hollow.  And while it's beautiful, to only give is unsustainable.

On receiving grace.  Receiving grace from another human?  That.  It is ever humbling, beyond word and thought.  It burrows into our hearts, if we let it.  And it transports us into someplace much deeper.  We rise and live up to something different.  It's going off the map of the expected and into the realm of real connection, of being seen.  You simply cannot unsee or unfeel the beauty of grace once you've truly been gifted it and truly received it.  And it makes us feel so special to know that grace comes from someone believing in our good, in our humanity.  Someone who is willing to save us from our heavy, dirty selves by reflecting back to us the poetic and beautiful version of us they see.  And it comes from unwavering faith that we will live up to being our highest selves, even when we are disappointed that we have fallen short in ways we'd rather not admit.  Because of this kind of grace, we can face our selves for real because someone else already has (they've been willing to walk that treacherous ground before and with us), and by doing so, has accepted us.  And then we can live in love and without fear.  And be who we are meant to be.  No hiding.  No shame.  Just human.  And full of grace.  But... if we only receive, and we do not also give, we do not allow ourselves to feel and embody the depths of the most beautiful state of being, and we would fail to know the light we, too, receive when we find we have the ability to inspire and transform someone else, just by our gift of graceful acceptance. 

On recriprocal grace.  Sanctified.  Mercy.  Reprieve.  Divine.  This is where the best words in the definition of grace come in.  This is where we must aim.  This is feeling what the stars feel like -- their guiding sparkle in the vast darkness -- in our very being, deep in our bellies where our knowing resides.  Reciprocal grace is mutual acceptance of what is human, dark or light, perfect or imperfect, giving or needy, strong or weak, broken in whatever ways we are, in each of us.  Maybe you'll say it's an elusive unicorn.  But... I happen to know that it isn't.

When I sit down to write in this blog, it's often just because I have this need to say something important while I daily search to find something perfect upon which to focus my thoughts.  To reach out and let loose on the universe something stirring within me, or maybe even some part of me, that needs to be poured out and seen.  Maybe I'm unwittingly hoping to feel some grace in return.  I wish I always had divine sense to know what to say.  Every now and then I think perhaps I do.  And maybe, just maybe, that is a manifestation of grace, too. 

This image is one of the first ones that comes up when you Google "grace."  A heart made out of human hands and the star that keeps us alive.  Fitting, I think.  

Photo credit:  https://livingbydesign.org

That Perfect Upside Down

"I'm okay when everything is not okay."

I mean, it's true.  Somehow, that's actually true.  Even though they're Tori Amos's words, not mine.  But I'm taking those words and making them mine today.  Even when I feel like it's really not okay, my heart knows it is.  I guess that's what faith is.  I guess that's what hearing yourself and listening to and heeding that self feels like.  Even when angry chaos is outside and knocking at, or trying to beat down, my door.  Sometimes I just have to ride it out on a trusty blanket.  And pull the blanket up to envelop me and just let the wind blow where it will.  And keep focused on the stars that center me again and again.    

I sorta think upside down is part of my fate.  And maybe it's also just what my 41 looks like.  And, again, that's okay.



That song.  It keeps playing in my head today.  No matter how sophisticated a person becomes in the real world, and how experienced a person grows to be through the complexities and intricacies of climbing ladder after ladder, hill after hill (thank God some of them have cliffs we can see at the top)... we still all started out the same -- a little blue and upside down in the hospital, when we first began, knowing only our mothers.  And I suppose despite all the growing, learning, stumbling, succeeding, and aging, each prior stage of us never leaves.  Like a mother's love.  And like a coat of paint underneath that you can cover over again and again with different colors.  But it remains as a priming surface.  Including the upside down blue one after being thrust out of the womb.  And there's some solace in remembering that I, too, was an upside down baby once.  And felt like one other later times in life when I wasn't.  Because I know I'm stronger than that now.  Smarter than that now.  Understand the nature of love now.  Feel the deeper forces of the universe and revel in them now rather than letting them destroy me.  When I see that I was able to weather that upside down and become the me that I have, I am assured I can weather this, too.  Because it's all part of a larger whole that I know is beautiful.

And that kitten, kitten, kitten in my hair line.  That feeling.  Giving in to the tangled mess that is determined to just... keep... fucking with you when you've grown so weary of it.  In fact, I painted a large oil painting long ago when that line got stuck, a record skipping in my mind, in another upside down chapter of my life.  Turning round and round.  And that one, inspired by this song, was red.  And around the same time, I also painted this other blue painting with birds picking me apart.  Back when I first got brave as an artist.  And didn't care what people saw on the canvas; I just needed to pour things out.  I had no choice.  These two paintings pictured below were once hanging in a gallery and have adorned the walls of many homes I've had, but they are currently in my attic, at least for the moment....  They're the first two paintings I made that were real, and I mean that in the Velveteen rabbit kind of way.  The way that real means messy and worn... and broken and not particularly shiny... but also feeling genuine, essential, and found, all at the same time.   

My little blue world is turning upside down.  That may be a good way to put it.  Not like the Stranger Things Upside Down.  My nightmares can be haunting, with images so hard to shake in the daylight, but thankfully not in the demogorgon kind of way.  And I don't have nightmares that often these days, but when I do, mostly they're manifestations of my latent fears of death or disease befalling a loved one.  I think our dreams give us the keys to life we need; they tell us what's important to us, in secret but confident whispers. 

There's certainly an upside down-ness to life these days.  I am using the strength in the reserves I've saved for a rainy day (or more likely stored up on a rainy day when I've been revived by the rain).  The kittens in my hair and birds pecking at me in those old paintings remain, but they don't feel quite the same.  I know more.  I've learned more.  I have faith now.  And I have more warmth inside that is simply incapable of being chilled.  And the blue has faded... I'm not a dangling blue newborn, and my blood is circulating mightily because this beating heart of mine was meant to weather all of this, I know that.  But I'm not fully right-side up just yet. 

For now, I'm gonna go listen to that song again and stare at these old paintings for a little while more, as I quietly continue to resolve to do the work of turning myself the right way round.   

That Perfect Blue

There have been two stressful events now that have made me see blue.  Like a blue haze over everything.  Like a film.  Kind of spotty.  And it exists somehow, ephemeral between me and what I see, if that even makes sense.  Can see it even when I close my eyes.  Kind of a cobalt blue - that's the closest pigment color I can think of to try to name it.  I've Googled this before, and I came up with literally nothing.  No explanation.  I talked to a friend last time it happened who assumed it was something like an aura signaling something deeper.  I wondered if it's a strange sort of stress migraine.  Or maybe it's some spiritual shift.  I honestly don't know.  But when I feel like everything is outside me and broken wide open to a place I can't comprehend in that moment (which is insanely rare for a control freak like me), I somehow am lifted up on to some other plane out of pure necessity to escape a moment, and things go blue.  Maybe it's my spirit saving me from something I need saving from.  Twice now.  As of tonight.

Try not to worry about me, if you are so inclined.  It didn't seem to have any lasting effect last time this happened many months ago.  I've survived way worse.

I'm reminded of a song, which in this moment somehow makes this unnerving blue a little less worrisome... it's the most human color, after all:

He stumbled into faith and thought
God this is all there is.
The pictures in his mind arose
And began to breathe.
And all the Gods in all the worlds
Began colliding on a backdrop of blue.

 

Blue lips
Blue veins

 

He took a step but then felt tired,
He said, I'll rest a little while.
But when he tried to walk again,
He wasn't a child.
And all the people hurried past
Real fast and no one ever smiled.

 

Blue lips
Blue veins

 
Blue, the color of the planet from far, far away

 

He stumbled into faith and thought
God this is all there is.
The pictures in his mind arose
And began to breathe.
And no one saw and no one heard
They just followed lead.
The pictures in his mind awoke
And began to breed.

They started off beneath the knowledge tree,
Then they chopped it down to make white picket fences.
They marched along the railroad tracks
And smiled real wide for the camera lenses.
They made it past the enemy lines
Just to become enslaved in the assembly lines.

 

Blue lips

Blue veins

 

Blue, the color of the planet from far, far away

 

Blue lips

Blue veins

 

Blue, the color of the planet from far, far away

 

Blue, the most human color

Blue, the most human color

Blue, the most human color

 

Blue lips

Blue veins

 

Blue, the color of our planet from far, far away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That Perfect Integrity: A Meditation

I have been thinking a lot about the word integrity lately. 

As a lawyer, I've heard so many times, and I've seen with my own two eyes, how critical integrity is.  My word matters.  My ability to feel and show respect matters.  My temperance matters.  My intense and steadfast care in the things I do matters.  My conscientiousness matters.  These are all forms of external integrity -- meeting high standards, not giving in to defeat, respectfully working with others, and in all ways, being respectable.  It's imperative in a profession where poor judgment can lead to losing a law license or the respect of judges and peers.  Without my integrity, what have I got? 

(Caveat: I am human though, and I have learned to also be mindful about my conscientiousness in particular going too far... I know this now.  It can create an unhealthy rigidity that can feel toxic if it bleeds over into everything too much.  A law professor once told me I was conscientious to a fault... which I was a little offended by at the time, but now I realize that perhaps I can be, when I am overthinking things, anyway.  It may give me near perfect grades and a reputation for doing impeccable legal work, but it steals joy to be too conscientious in all facets of life.  Perhaps I should remember a little more often something that my boss (also a highly-respected lawyer, by the way) told me a few months ago: you have to be good enough to be healthy, but bad enough to be happy... there's a lot of wisdom in that off-handed comment (which clearly stuck with me).) 

But at the core, without integrity, I am not me.  And I cannot do all the Everything I do in an authentic way without it.  And interestingly, as an artist (my other me, the eccentric and grittier side of my otherwise type-A personality), integrity also lies in the center of everything, albeit manifested differently.  Maybe it's no coincidence that integrity has the word "grit" embedded in it.  I've got that in spades.  The artist-side of me is a less conscientious version of my integrity-fueled self, though.  When I have focused on art in various ways throughout my life (in making, in loving, in music...), it's been with an honesty and ease of dedication that comes more effortlessly than in any other form.  There is no bending to expectation or convention.  It is just pure as can be.  An integrity tied to my inner self that just flows out.  I am less anal-retentive in art, and passionate.  But still... integrity is key.  (And I'm realizing the concept behind what I'm sleepily trying to explain is also tying to a book I started reading called Finding Your Own North Star... and the main important takeaway from that book (which I didn't finish yet) seems to be this: we have social selves (the supposed to do's and should do's) and essential selves (our own internal North Star that our gut points us to if we listen).  And they must be in harmony.)

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I should probably back up and start where lawyer-me usually does: with the definition (...that art-side I was swimming in a moment ago in that paragraph just before threatened to interfere with my orderly analysis... but I honestly like that it interrupted the order by injecting a little chaos, so I'm gonna leave it as I wrote it... as it just came out).

Anyway, Webster's defines integrity as:

1 : firm adherence to a code of especially moral or artistic values : incorruptibility 

2 : an unimpaired condition : soundness 

3 : the quality or state of being complete or undivided : completeness

Adherence to a code... an artistic code even.  Incorruptibility.  Unimpaired.  Soundness.  Completeness.  Undivided.   

This is who I am.  Who I must be.  At my core.  Whether it's the conscientious and detail-oriented lawyer version or the steadfast and pure artistic side flowing from within.  Either way.  Incorruptible.  Sound.  Unimpaired.  Whole.  Even if seemingly disparate on the surface. 

And I'm realizing why the concept of integrity keeps sitting on my shoulder.  It's one of the hardest things to hold on to with steadfast determination when things crumble or catch fire.  When change is afoot.  And it happens to be the Monday concept on which I focus in a series of daily meditations I've been doing for a number of months now.  Each day of the week, I focus on a particular concept or notion from the seven virtues of Bushido, which I understand only loosely and on a surface level to derive from the Samurai honor code.  I'm not focused on the history of Bushido or the why or how this concept ended up on my path.  Indeed, I had never heard of Bushido at all until a friend posted about it on Facebook.  But I saw it, it caught my attention, and I realized I needed to incorporate it into my way of thinking at this time in my life.  And so I have.  (When something makes itself evident to me, I listen now.  I don't quash or ignore things I sense I'm supposed to see or hear.)  And so these seven lessons are now ones I remember, consciously, every day.  On repeat.

I have this printed out on my desk at work next to one of my monitors and have an electronic copy on my phone for reference on the weekends, with a reminder on my phone for every morning to meditate on the Bushido concept for the day.  And I do it and reflect on how it fits and strengthens me with each passing week.  The first virtue I meditate on every Monday, and so on through Sunday when I get to the seventh.  

And even though I began this post thinking about integrity, today is Thursday.  Which in my meditative cycle is honor.  Which happens to have my favorite precept of all seven in a simple and poignant line at the bottom:

YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM YOURSELF. 

Can't you just still hear that reverberating in the air?  I cannot hide from myself.  

 

I did for a long time.  Not in everything.  I've been authentic more often than not throughout my life.  But I did hide from myself as I tried mightily to be conscientious in all things, even if it meant silencing inconvenient things inside, even when mess should have been allowed to win.  Life is a beautiful mess, after all.  And this conscientiousness of mine running rampant was, indeed, to a fault as my professor tried to tell me twelve years ago; I now see.  But I refuse to ever do that again.  There's no going back once you open your eyes to your self.  I know myself, and I love her, strengths and faults... all the things.  And I trust her.  I never wanted to hide from her.  But it's easy sometimes to hide from yourself when you're so determined to do what's objectively right, when you're a pleaser by nature, when you're determined not to fail at things, and when you've worked so damn hard.  But... when I stopped hiding from myself, something magical happened.  I greeted myself on a path.  Petals unfurled.  Smoke cleared.  Fog lifted.  Every metaphor like that you can think of.  There was more light I had forgotten to see.  Things began to sing everywhere.  I could see things falling into place.  It's an irreversible course fueled by energy, by the universe, by everything I see, which just propels me forward in an authentic and beautiful way.  With so much less fear.  Enlivening and solidifying the me from whom I cannot hide.   Indeed, pieces seem to fall into place even while they are also objectively falling apart.  I cannot hide from myself.  The conscientious form of integrity is still inside me of course, but so is the integrity with GRIT.  My social self and my essential self -- my North Star -- are coming together.  I have a burning desire to be whole again.  And I am so close.