tara's tierra

An Empty Cup of Tea

La muñeca abrió los ojos.
                                           --Alejandra Pizarnik

Sitting on the porch, listening to a curious cricket, I heard the bike in front of me as it tic-tic-ticked down my street. Inside, I feel like an empty aquarium, filled with space and a total lack of desire. It's an unfamiliar feeling, the one of just being. It's not unfamiliar at all, actually, but more like the way I felt alone on a third floor leaning porch balcony in Richmond, Virginia or on a night bus from Cuenca, Ecuador to Quito. It's the way I felt when I was unhinged from the thousand desires of a thousand people whose fingers felt like they were always on me, pushing into my skin and leaving one of those white marks as they pulled them back. I feel empty, in a way that is so incredibly freeing. Maybe it is not emptiness, per se, but rather a fullness of only myself brimming with clarity.

Graduate school takes a toll, she says. It's not that it just opens the mind, it opens the center of desire. Michael Warner observes that we don't know what or who we desire until it is upon us. We don't necessarily know what we seek until -- too late or too early -- it has enveloped us in it in a way that makes us realize what we were looking for without even trying. It's like arriving to gate 32 at the airport, getting on a plane, and winding up somewhere you never intended to go, but upon stepping foot in the sand, realizing that you are home. Desire. It's so hard to control because it is precisely letting go of that control. But desire is dangerous. It brings us to the brink of loss of self, as we dive, foolhardy, without even knowing we are diving into pools that can drown the very person we are.

I'm empty of desire right now, in the serenest of ways. I want things, sure, but they are elusive and unnamed. And the most important part is that they do not want me. In the not wanting, the pushing away, the clearing of space, the emptiness enables one to close up only so that one can open up again, with an ownership and a steadfastness and an assurance that was muddled in a forest of too many trees.

In the greatest of ways, I am in my own clearing. It's scary, the exposure of myself to myself, the exposure of the responsibility and the unhinging, but in facing the raw openness of the clearing, I can see my own version of the story. I can see my own version of the present. And I can just sit and enjoy it, and not desire at all, only so that I may, one day, desire all over again.

Yo estaba en el pequeño jardín triangular y tomaba el té con mis muñecas y con la muerte.
                                                                            --Alejandra Pizarnik

Good-byes

I just said good-bye to one of my favorite professors. He was the first professor at Berkeley that made me feel really smart. He was the first one that opened up philosophic doors into literature for me, doors that would lead me to unanswerable questions. He taught me the word aporia and that complicating the obvious, while it may create more enemies than friends,  leads to the most rewarding work. Of course, he also brought me to tears on numerous occasions because he pushes when sometimes you just want someone to agree with you and he is aggressive while still having the arms of a teddy bear at times. I think his way of professoring is based on the fact that he actually takes what you write seriously before you take it seriously yourself. He makes you stand behind what you think instead of just nodding his head in tacit agreement (or utter boredom).

Anyway, I have been uncharacteristically unsappy of late, overall a good thing. But today, I felt that feeling of wanting to hug the universe. I mean, my professor is just going to another university, and email is all too easy. But it's that feeling of my years as a graduate student slowly -- oh too slowly some days -- concluding. I am writing this from a computer where I wrote blog posts almost daily for a time in Doe library. Earlier, I was sitting in places I used to sit, wondering where it all went. I kind of feel like a visitor sometimes, looking at a world that somehow is moving into the past and slipping away from the present, even though I am still here.

All this to say, on days like this, I think about chance encounters and mis-takes, of faces in buses and staircases leading to benches. I think about the way I feel when I breathe in, so deeply, that I am sure my body is filled with the sea or when I open my eyes and for two split seconds am positive that I am a balloon in your hand.

"Don't just do something. SIT there!"

Tonight I spent a solid half an hour learning how to stand. I went to my fourth full Stress Care class at Alta Bates, where the first 30 minutes were spent talking about foot position, spinal curvature, and pelvic angles. David Weinberg, the fantastic instructor, told us to pretend our pelvis was a flower pot and our spine a flower. Grow daisy, grow. After a long day of grading essay after essay, it was internally amusing to spend an hour focusing on standing and breathing.  I learned that in general I am a pretty poor stander (self-judgment), in that, I lock my knees and tend to curve my back. I might be able to talk about post-colonialism and what the term obfuscates, but stand? or sit still?! Not so hot, Daly.

Part of the mental exercise tonight was talking about "unpleasant events" that had happened over the course of the last week. In doing the exercise, I realized that many unpleasant events I experience are also pleasant events at the same time. This might seem like an obvious statement, but it is something we take for granted. The most challenging conversations we have, the most difficult professional obstacles we have to overcome -- they are neither good nor bad, nor satisfying nor disappointing, but a tangled mix of many sensations and feelings at once. Taking the time to notice such things is part of unlocking the mystery of  the ever elusive "inner peace."

Despite my cynical nature -- and believe me, I hear my cynical side piping up all the time in the sitting meditation: "Tara, what the hell are you doing?! You have real work to do!" or "What, Tara, are you some kind of new age Berkeley freak?! Get off the kool-aid. You've been here for too long..."-- I sincerely have found this work to have had some real, tangible impacts on my life. For instance, for the first time in so long, I am no longer reacting to things around me without thinking them through. I let things sit for a few days before I "act," which has led me to make more informed and calm decisions than I have in a very long time.

Additionally, I have started paying attention to my own antsy-ness. It is not that I do not get antsy now, but rather, I am more aware of the situations, people, and events that cause this feeling and I remind myself to pause and assess the things I can actually change about myself or my circumstances and to let go of those that I cannot in relation to such situations. This sounds like AA jargon, and in part, it is. It is about pausing, taking a deep breath, and recognizing what (and as lots of us have brought up in the class, who) can and cannot be controlled.  I don't think anything dramatic has shifted in me, but rather, a few very small things have "turned" and these slight turns have significant effects on so many areas of my life. I feel, for the first time in a really long time, that I am directing my life from a centered self and that I am taking responsibility for who I am and who I want to be.

Anyway, all this to say, when one slows down life a bit and stops reacting, one really gets to the root of the self and the self's fears, denials, evasions, and coping mechanisms. There are no "magic bullets" to any of life's problems, but sometimes just standing there, feeling your feet on the ground, and remembering to breathe is better for you than any radical action, decision, or movement.

David has said a few times: "Don't just do something! Sit there." See what happens if you start doing this. I swear, it will slowly begin to make a difference in your life. You can roll your eyes and scoff at all those yoga-mat toting hippies, but there is something to it. Doing nothing but breathing and staring at the wall may be the hardest but best thing you can treat yourself to.

Now, off to sit some more I go...

Flowers in the Air

I'm sitting here munching on a mix of Planter's peanuts and chocolate bits. It's a delicious combination, somewhat like an organic reese's peanut butter cup. And I have spent the day primarily by myself, besides a couple of hours, and done a significant amount of work on my dissertation and myself.

For the first time in a really long time, I have no idea where life will take me tomorrow, and I have no idea who or what I particularly desire. I opened so much up the last three years and explored areas of myself I had never explored before with intense depth and breadth. I had three people, very different people, tell me they loved me and that they thought I was amazing. Some meant it more than others. And I had three people, the same three people, tell me they actually had no idea what they really wanted and in fact, wished I would go away. And in the midst of that, I too went through ups and downs of total clarity and utter disillusionment, of saying too much and saying too little, of giving way too little and then giving way too much, of asking for presence and asking for absence. In a Planter's nutshell, it's time to regroup, retreat, and reevaluate the way I have been living because I cannot seem to get things right, mainly because I have been focusing on other people and not myself, and looking to others to solve problems that are at root, my own.

And so, yes, everything is somewhat in the air. But it's not a bad thing, now that I have some perspective. I'm not reacting to anything or anyone anymore. I am not caught up in other people's searches for self and familial peace, and I have a better relationship with my own family and friends than I have ever before in my life. So, I'm going to hang out in my clearing, plant my own flowers, and simply enjoy the pleasure of my own company.

Life as it Unfolds

Today I went on a hike with someone I have known since seventh grade, when I was on the Strikers travel soccer team and ran up and down the midfield with my unbounded lung capacity. Sucking on oranges, downing gatorade drink boxes. As I was walking along the dirt path in Chabot, I was thinking of dirt paths at Devil's Den in Connecticut where I kicked rocks and got dust in my socks while avoiding small gartner snakes that seemed wild and scary. I felt like I was in a timespace somewhere between Fairfield, Connecticut and Oakland, California and that I was 32 and 17 all at once. This happens really frequently lately. Here and there and nowhere at once.

* * *
Walking by the park later, what a beautiful day, I saw so many people. Some were playing frisbee in red t-shirts and beige shorts and others were eating Trader Joe's pretzels and sipping $7 red wine on their blankets in the sun. Kids were cavorting around with dirt underneath their nails and inch worms in their sandals, and furry dogs with drippy mouths were trotting in circles, bumping into each other, giving high fives. I have a longing inside, I thought, to be one of those people in the park that seemed to be living as if they had sprouted from the very grass below their feet. As I walk, I keep banging up against this glass box that they are contained in. I feel like a 17 year-old at the Boston Aquarium on a high school field trip. Look at the axolotl. Look at the shark. Look at the people living a Saturday. The museum of daily life.

* * *
I am in a fold of life. It is a strange fold, between time zones and spaces, between bodies and minds. It's a fold in which I am lying down. Sometimes, while lying, I try to meditate. And sometimes I perch my little birdie head out from the fold, and peek out for a second. Down in my fold, I don't know quite what I want or quite what I look like. I don't know who I desire, or what desire even feels like. Did I desire once and what was that feeling? If once is as good as never, Walter Benjamin, when will never ever happen once, again?

* * *
I'm outside walking through the arcade of life. Looking through the glass windows, seeing images that paralyze me for a second, never thinking I could have possibly dreamed them up days earlier. I see outlines of figures and former selves dancing on tables and sleeping in hammocks. I'm in an alley way, a tunnel, a passage between. And I am not sure how long I will be here.

Alice on the Ocean

When I get home I shall write a book about this place... If I ever do get home. --Alice (in Wonderland)

Thanks to my hairdresser, I just downed a bunch of drops of passionflower vine -- not wine -- because it is supposed to be a natural remedy for quieting the brain. I was sitting there getting highlights today and we really had a lovely conversation about so many things, including passionflower. And since I am spending quite a pretty penny to be slightly more blonde, I might as well get all the advice I can while I sit through the tedious foils. I think I see a cheshire cat...

I have been gathering red rose petals of advice from many people of late, and all of it is quite reaffirming. Some of it is even unsolicited, like the woman today waiting for the 18 bus on Shattuck who just started rambling to me with no invitation, spoken or gestured, for a good 10 minutes. She told me stories of the  way time is experienced by the tiniest of worms, whose life cycle is 24 hours, in comparison to human life-cycles. She was a strong 70-something year old who had a lot to get out. She advised me "don't go into academia," a thought I could only laugh to myself about. Ummm, it's a little late to turn back. 

But I digress. In all seriousness, Alice, it is about getting home.  In fact, I am really at home with myself of late. I am incredibly comfortable with who I am and what I want, and what kind of life I would like to build for myself. I am content with the decisions I have made in my life, and I am at peace with the place that I am in, despite the ongoing work I do everyday to articulate even more clearly to myself my own desires. Although they change slightly, I think I have mainly arrived to a place of great clarity, soundness of mind, and calmness of spirit. I know how to communicate openly with friends and loved ones in my life, and I know that it is okay when others don't agree with every word I say or every decision I make. I feel a lot, but I am not afraid of any of my feelings, whatever they are, because emotional range and depth are to me, an essential part of being human. I learn everyday, admit when I am wrong, believe in myself when I am right, say I love you, say I am sorry, say I am happy, say I am angry and I know that I deserve to expect the same of others in my life. 

Everyone of us is on her or his own life journey, in her or his own rowboat, exploring "this place" and trying to "get home."  I think we need to recognize, all of us, when we are doing too much rowing for others as well as when they could use a rest from their paddling. We also need to ask for help when we need a rest from our own rowing, and accept it when it is there.  It is a precarious balance.  People who can navigate the waves are the ones that impress me the most, not those who choose a safe harbor simply to avoid the spray. If you never got wet, what would be the point of living? There are dots of colored boats all around me in my ocean; and yet they are all so far away. But Alice is relentless in her pursuit of adventures in wonderland: ups, downs, and the sheer magic of trying to understand this place called life, rose by rose and card by card. 

Bells Chime, My Spine Aches

Last night I went to my first two hours of an eight week, plus retreat,"Stress Care" class.  It is really a meditation class aimed to help one reach the "non-discursive" part of the brain. If I arrive, I will tell you, because I am quite sure my brain is faulty. It never turns off. Not even at 4:43am. Not even at 5:21am. Your brain is sleeping and at rest? Mine is hypothesizing about where I will be in three years and where I was three years ago. Another big part of the class is finding the beautiful thing called presence and learning about how to live without judging, or at least, not mixing say, eating a great meal, and judging its quality in the same bite. Of course, I wanted to point out, if the food was rotten, wouldn't it be essential to our vitality to judge it? Nothing is black and white, of course.

Anyway, there are seven of us in the class and we all seemed rather nervous. I realized a lot of my nerves were coming from the fact that I was not sure if I would be "good" at the class, which is telling in and of itself as to why I need to be there. I also realized as we were sitting in this circle how difficult it was for me to simply sit in the circle. I wanted to shift my weight or go to the bathroom or crack some joke to lighten the mood. However, after an hour and a half, I actually really did not want to leave. The teacher had this amazingly calm voice and when he was explaining concepts, he would look directly at me sometimes. I kept thinking, "I bet he can see how nervous I am inside. I bet he thinks, 'wow, thank god that little lady is in this class'." Again, good to take note of. Why be so self-aware?

We talked for a while about mindfulness and thoughts. We talked about the pesky thoughts that settle into your head and won't go away, the kind that keep resurfacing and cluttering the mind's ability to be present with something as simple as washing one's face. This really nice older guy said that he cannot sleep because he has done so much wrong in his life that he cannot forgive himself for his past. I felt so bad for him, because I was thinking, shit, I am only 32. Imagine how much regret this guy must have! I think I can't sleep?! In all seriousness, the old guy and I had a lot in common and the teacher was so helpful in terms of dealing with thoughts. He emphasized that you have to be "kind" and "compassionate" towards such thoughts, and thereby kind to yourself. He was saying, when such thoughts enter you do not try to kick them out of your head, but rather "be with" them. A way of "being with" them is by "inviting them to tea," but never "feeding them cake." Metaphorically, this was quite useful to me. "Come on in pesky thought, have some tea, drink a few sips with me..." and hopefully, tranquilly make your exit.

The hardest part of last night was doing sitting meditation. We sat at the edge of our chairs, with our feet flat on the floor and our backs straight. Our hands were placed on our knees. If you want to try this at home, I highly recommend it. I kid you not, it was so hard. I was sitting like that, thinking about the fact that I was sitting, feeling that I was sitting, wondering if everyone thought I looked weird (why would they care?! Good-bye, narcissism), and hoping I did not suddenly fall out of the chair. Then the teacher told us how to meditate. I picked a spot on the wall to gaze at and I began paying attention to my breath, as he suggested. I put my hand on my stomach and felt myself breathe in and out and in and out.

For the first minute or so, I was really into it. I mean, I don't think I was actually "thinking"! It was a small miracle. But of course, suddenly, I got completely afraid. If I were not thinking, if I were not telling myself something about myself or about someone else or about tomorrow or about yesterday or about that evening or about my dissertation....then who the hell was I?! And what in god's name was I "doing"? For the rest of the time, I tried to regain a minute of peace, but it was thought after thought after thought as I tried to recenter and focus on my breathing. Chime chime. Finally it was over after an endless four minutes! And to think, people go for days!

We all shared our thoughts on the experience and all of us had the same reaction: stiff spines, inability to concentrate, fear of "letting go", intrusive thoughts, thoughts of needing to go to the gym, it was really quite amusing.

When we left, I felt very different already. I did not turn my cell phone on when I walked home, and tried to think about my steps on the sidewalk. I actually ended up crying and crying when I got in the door, not because I had discovered anything bad about myself, but simply because I had discovered how much work I have to do in terms of sitting still and being. I want to be able to sit in a chair and enjoy it, or wash my face and feel the soap, or eat dinner and actually taste the food. I really do want to access a part of my brain that is not about telling stories or creating narratives or about feeling this way or that. I want to access that place where I just be and feel the ground below me and the air in me.

Small steps. Lots of tea. And no cake!  But I am really quite excited.

Random things I have recently learned about my dissertation and life

(1) César Vallejo's drink of choice was beer and he really liked a bistro called Le Lion in Paris, where because of his frequent visits he got beers for 75 centimes instead of 80. Bottoms up!

(2) Pablo Picasso was a needy bastard who could not survive for significant periods of time without a woman, preferably not his wife, in his bed.

(3) When I put my mind to it, I can lift things that I never would be able to otherwise. Something takes over and I can spin a mattress on my pinky finger.

(4) There is not much in life that an issue of US Magazine or a new shirt cannot at least temporarily fix.

(5) There are very few friends that can make you laugh so hard that you forget who you are for a second. Those friends should never be taken for granted.

(6) Lots of times putting yourself "first" actually means putting yourself "second." If you are lucky, someday someone else will be doing the same for you. Or maybe they already have.

(7) Parents often have a frozen image of their children that they cannot give up. Maybe it was their daughter at 12, maybe at 18, maybe at 22. But when they think of us, that is what they see.  It kills them to see our new photo, the new snapshot of who we have become (or maybe, who we always were).

(8) No matter what you do in life, someone will be pissed off, so let go of pleasing everyone, especially your dissertation committee.

(9) No matter how much I eat, I'm sorry, but I will always be thin. It is not a choice, it is a metabolism.

(10) Every one of us is probably the love of someone's life.

(11) I will graduate, no matter what, a year from May. I will take myself on a trip to Hawaii afterwards.

A Great Man and a Great Line

I used to have a little black book with yellow pages that I kept amazing quotations I stumbled across in. The quotations came from books, of course, but also from the words of insightful people who thought they were saying the most ordinary of things, but were actually saying something truly philosophic. My host father in Ecuador was a wonderful, ornery, vintage caballero from another era. He wore 1970s polyester blend shirts and always had a top hat on, no matter what the occasion. His tragic downfall was that he smoked at least two packs of Marlboro reds a day from the time he was twelve-years old on. At night, I would sometimes hear him as he coughed up god know's what into some kind of spittoon at the side of his bed. Sadly, he died about six months ago, but probably is still smoking in his grave.

Anyway, this man welcomed me into his house twice, each time for about six months. The first time I was petrified of him, and stayed clear. The second time, a few years later, we really became buddies. Both times, I was at his house for Christmas so was privy to the intimate family moments. On the first Christmas he said something to me that I will never forget, as simple as it might sound. The line was delivered after a healthy dose of Christmas rum, just after I had the courage to ask him if I could bum one of his cigarettes. It was like asking anyone else for a kidney or their first born.

He looked at me, I think for the first time he actually realized I "lived" there, so to speak, and he said, "Tara. You should know one thing. People come, people go. Babies are born, Grandparents die. But in the end, you always have cigarettes." I then puffed down that Marlboro red and felt my lungs burn with the joy of sharing it with the greatest smoker I have ever known. I think it was the most words in a row that he ever spoke to me. "Buenos días, mi rubia. Buenas noches, mi rubia."

The last few months have been somewhat long ones for me. On too many an occasion, finding no one to talk to around my too-big apartment, I sit out on my front porch and I smoke just a single Parliament light. I sit there, staring up at the stars or glaring at the rogue cats, and for the five minutes of solace, I feel slightly better and think, maybe after this cigarette, I'll get to the place that I so very much want to be. I harness the self that I grew in Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, and all the thousands of nights in places where I have been alone in my head, wondering why no one gets it. I know that I shouldn't feel badly for myself, but to be honest, although I am an optimist at heart and have been for a very long time, I really fucking do. And you know what? I think I deserve to. 

Hanging up my Glass Heart

I am obsessed with the idea of hanging up my limbs. Every single night my neck hurts so much in the knotty space between my jutting shoulder blades that I promise myself that tomorrow (oh, alas, since it is yet another insomniac night, it is tomorrow) I won't carry my god damn laptop around to relieve some of the pressure on my soon-to-be hunchbacked frame. And I like to say at night that I wish I could hang up my limbs because they are so heavy and weary. I imagine hooks coming out of my wall for my legs and my arms and maybe even my head, if only it were that simple to disconnect it from this wretched inescapable body. 

Today I was looking for visual inspiration since nothing else in my life is remotely inspiring besides my morning coffee and occasional hot showers.  So, I started looking through Adriana Varejao's work online and it really got under my skin. It's beautifully blue and embodied. And most importantly, she has a drawing of limbs hanging on the wall that captures my own desire for freedom from this weighty carcass I have to trek from my house up Telegraph Avenue day after day. I get so tired because it is so exposed all the time, what with all these people staring at it, and all it really wants is a break. My hands wish they would be held tighter and my head wishes someone would touch it. My arms want to wrap around someone and my legs wish that they didn't have to be pushed over to their side as if they were coated in some kind of toxic syrup. There is nothing to make you feel more alone than lying in bed with someone who wishes you were not there. It's the story of my life. People wishing I would go away and be less attentive. People wishing I wouldn't want anything. People wishing I could just live my life as if I did not need them. Maybe if I try hard enough I can make myself vanish into thin air and then I wouldn't have to be so present in people's lives.  "I just wish I were single." Well, I don't. 

I have gotten used to it.  I don't really need my cumbersome limbs. All I need is my laptop so that I can write because at least when I write my words love me back.  It's such a waste of time to bother feeling in a world that is much happier if we all just sat around and pretended we were so content. Then everyone would say hello to me and no one would ever hurt me or my thoughts. I'm not hanging up just my limbs tonight. I'm hanging up my glass heart, too.