The Furious Spinner

Ahhh, what a time it is. The world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket, so why don't we weave that basket? Make it beautiful. Make it a refuge.

I have always wanted my home to be a refuge. I have always wanted to create and/or be a part of community wherever I am. It has not always happened. Rarely happens, actually. I am not good with relationships. I get immersed in story and when I come up for air, time has gone on by. Perhaps that is why I relate to the Old Mermaids so much: They are of two worlds. Can you live in both? Can I live in both?

Relationships should be easy. Why aren't they? They were much easier for me when I lived back East. Was I different? Much younger. Were the people different? Naw. Relationships have always been hard for me. I refuse to sit when I'd rather dance, be silent when I want to sing, endure when I'd rather change. Why does entry into society seem to require submission? Require monotone. Friends will occasionally tell me—after they've gone away from me—that there is something about my tone that offends them. My tone. (And then I say, "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about." Nothing complicated about that tone.)

When I was younger, some of my closest friends were men. Usually men I'd had a relationship with. Those were the easiest friendships. Once you've seen someone naked, you can pretty much talk about anything. Maybe not talk. Something relaxes. Once you've had sex with a person and then become friends, something changes; you accept each other on some deeper level—or some surface level. A physical comfort emerges. A teacher of mine was close friends with most of her ex-lovers; they became her best girlfriends. She told me, "If I loved them once, why wouldn't I be friends with them for always?" Would that have worked with me? If I'd slept with my girlfriends would we have remained friends?

Establishing relationships with men and women is different. As least generally speaking. One day when I was frustrated about my dealings with someone, I said to Mario, "Men are just easier. I miss my male friends! I don't have to worry if I've offended them. They don't go home and say I wonder what she meant when she said this that or the other. Probably because they weren't really listening and don't remember what I said but that's not the point. Why is that?" I ranted for quite a long time actually. Mario said, "It's because men are simpler. Women are more complex." I was stunned at the simplicity of his conclusions. "Really? You think that's it?" "Yep," he said. "Look at you. Over the space of an hour you go through all these different emotions. I don't think men do that." Mario likes women. He says he often does not understand his own kind. I often don't understand mine. (I know why. Culturally women are trained to get along with and socialize with men. But that's another post...)

Perhaps I've been living in the West so long that I've become passive aggressive. Communication styles out here are so indirect, and I just don't understand indirect. Not my way. Too much mystery going on and I ain't Jessica Fletcher.

Of course it's easier to blame an entire culture or region of the country for my communication problems.

Many people seem to offend quite easily. Are we all so wounded that we think everyone else is out to wound us, hurt us, crush us? Why don't we give the other person a break? Why do we assume malice? Is it because we have to believe that everything has to be about us? I've started giving people the benefit more and more. It's helped me a great deal, especially when I'm driving. Instead of getting angry and assuming someone is an asshole for cutting me off for instance, I think, "Maybe they're in a hurry because they've got an emergency or someone is in the hospital or whatever..." When Mario had kidney stones, I drove close to eighty miles an hour down the expressway in a torrential rainstorm. I wasn't an asshole; I was just a person trying to get a loved one some relief from horrible pain. I was grateful people got out of my way. When I let someone in when I'm driving, I feel as though I temporarily made a place in the world for that person. I'm saying, "You are welcome. Here, come here." What a lovely gift for someone.

Refuge. Does creating refuge mean we're a blank slate and people can write whatever they want on it? That's not my idea of refuge. Refuge for me is a place where I am accepted for who I am, where I am loved, where truths can be told, where the Visibles and Invisibles dance, laugh, create, eat, and love.

Art is refuge for me. When I first saw the above painting, Refugio by Michelle Hoffman, I began crying. I remembered being a child, I remembered feeling my body as a child, I remembered what it was like to know physically that my father would catch me. He wouldn't let me fall.

I've felt that way with Mario, too. One or two others. Places have been refuges for me, too. Sanctuaries. Some of these places have only been in my imagination: the Old Mermaid Sanctuary, for one.

Is home refuge for you? Is refuge the right word? Or does it imply we are fleeing something? Are we trying to climb out of that handbasket to hell, looking for home? No matter how comfortable or beautiful it is, it's still on the way to hell.

Recently a friend told me that when she first met me, she thought I was a goddess. She loved me, thought I was great, and put me up on a pedestal—so, of course, I disappointed her. (I appreciate her honesty and candor, by the way.) This isn't the first time someone has told me something like this. It has happened several times. Usually the person tells me years after they've gone out of my life when they finally have the courage to ask me, "What did you mean when you said this that or the other?" And I usually say, "I meant exactly what I said." "But your tone said something else. Your tone indicated you were really saying something else." "No, I say what I say and I mean what I say. There's nothing underneath."

Sometimes when people mention my tone, I say, "Maybe it's because I sound nasal. Is that it? Maybe I always sound irritated." Or maybe I'd say, "We were friends for years. Why didn't you give me the benefit of doubt? Why didn't you just ask me then?"

Must be something intimidating about me. Someone sees me as Kwan Yin at one meeting, then Kali at the next. They're all goddesses, babies.

And I am just a woman. Implicitly a goddess, for sure.

For years, I thought there was something wrong with me. Then I thought there was something wrong with everyone else. Now I'm thinking maybe I should try a little harder to watch my tone. (Whatever the fuck that means....Guess I'll have to work on the trying harder.) That word irritates me because I think of my parents telling me to watch my tone: Maybe they were trying to prepare me for the world.

Be a grown-up. Play well with others.

Perhaps I'll work on creating refuge in my mind and body for a while. In the meantime maybe the rest of the world will catch up with me and become multi-toned. Rainbow-toned. At least duo-toned.

I miss Linda. I miss Dave.

I have no answers. I seek refuge. You?

May You All Find Multi-toned Refuge in Beauty!

The painting Refugio which has now found refuge in our home was created by my very talented friend, Michelle Hoffman. She is an artist and chef extraordinaire! Thanks, Michelle.

Labels: community, Old Mermaids

2 comments

2 Comments:

Is home refuge for you?

Oh, yes. My moon is in Taurus. I gotta have my sweet little cottage with the garden and the cat and the kitchen and the women coming and dancing and drinking tea and going and coming back and doing magic and the Son and D-i-L and G/Son sleeping in the guest room as often as possible and the mouring doves outside in the rose bushes and the grape vines and the herbs in the herb bed and the books in the bookshelves and . . .

Yes, my home is my refuge.

By  Hecate, at 3:50 PM  

Sounds wonderful!

By  Kim Antieau, at 4:01 AM  

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