You Can Ask Me How It Is

By Stacy Lewis on October 11, 2011

I have a friend who moved up north and started a commune. This was many years ago and she never calls it a commune — only “The Land.”

She recently told me that anyone could come there who wanted to live, and they let them come, and the person was asked to stay for one year. They participated in the community, and they were welcomed, but it was understood that it took a year to really know what it meant to live there. To have the experience necessary to choose to stay on.

It’s been one year, to the day, since we moved to cohousing.

I remember, even in the first weeks after moving, people would ask me, “How is it?!”

I always felt a little odd because I never replied, “Oh my god, it’s incredible!”

Instead I would say something like, “It’s really good — but I can’t really say how it is yet. We’re still so new there, I really don’t know how it is going to impact us. It feels good, we’re not concerned about anything, but I don’t really know… yet.”

Because how could I know in advance how it would be for us, for me?

Did I know that I would tap into a pool of my own anxiety, and come out the other side with more clarity?

Did I know what it would be like for my child to be playing outside on his own for the first time, essentially in the yard of twenty other households?

Did I know that there would be weekends where we had a community meal, chores, a community meeting, my committee meeting and Rom’s committee work — IN ADDITION to a family birthday party, a Hakomi class, Orlando’s golf class, etc.?

Did I know how much I would grieve for our old neighborhood — the one with the tree-lined streets, one-hundred-year-old houses, sweet and secret spots, the woods, a view of the lake, casual spaces to roam and be together as family?

Did I know how hard it would be, sometimes, to parent in community? And how nice?

Did I know that I would become part of a circle of people saying kaddish for a neighbor who passed away? Each night a prayer for the beauty of his life, the preciousness of this life, the holy commonality of death?

Did I know that the rhythms of the kids changing from one thing to the next — in the last month it’s gone from scooter-crashing to fort-building to four-square to indoor legos — would be a comfort to me? An affirmation of my place in the cycle of life, of my kids’ occupation on this ever-rotating earth?

Did I know what it would be like to participate in meetings with such kind and skilled people, each bravely speaking to their own experiences in a way that makes space for more — more of themselves, more of each other, more of life itself?

Did I realize that moving here was just another experience of creating ever-widening circles of relationship? First in my body with a new baby, then in my family, then in the Hakomi community, and now, here: we’ve plopped our home right in the midst of it all.

Did I know that I would grow, and that I would be challenged? ……….. yes

Did I know all the ways? ……….. no

And do I know all the ways to come? ……….. no

Am I choosing to stay on? ………….

Yes.

 


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Hakomi Level II

By Stacy Lewis on October 10, 2011

Fern Fiddlehead

I went to Hawaii for my fortieth birthday. I wanted to be somewhere beautiful, and warm, with my family, but able to be on my own part of the time, too. I was seeing beach. I was seeing myself meditating.

I found it all — we went to Hawaii and I spent time on the beach, my sandy kids crawling all over me, and I drove into the lush mountains and spent the day with two dear dharma teachers, sitting, walking, eating, listening. Looking to the far sea below.

That was the trip when I realized that I wanted to be a Hakomi therapist. I just knew it — I don’t remember what prefaced it, what ruminations or events precipitated that exact moment of decision. I just remember sitting on the big floral bedspread in the one bedroom in our little condo while the idea shot through me.

I want to be a Hakomi therapist.

I immediately went into some sort of super student mode and began Googling like mad. What universities could I attend? What programs did they have? What was required by Washington state in order to practice? I actually sat in a room in Hawaii and called universities in Seattle to ask about their programs. I came home. I received packets. I filled things out. I went to orientations.

And then I remembered that I wanted to be a Hakomi therapist.

I am sure that my therapist had mentioned the Personhood Series to me before, but that information came crashing back into my consciousness, and I thought, “Okay, I will start taking Hakomi workshops in the fall.” I had been a client of hers for about two years — experiencing how Hakomi worked, intuiting it — but I hadn’t wanted to look behind the scenes. Yet.

But then I did. So, I planned to take the classes in the fall and then maybe start school and pursue my licensed mental health counseling (LMHC) degree but how would I do both? And what about the kids? And homeschooling? And money? And?

And then I remembered that I wanted to be a Hakomi therapist.

So I started taking the Personhood workshops in March 2010. One month after my birthday. And I visited schools, and I filled out forms, and I kept taking the Personhood workshops, and eventually I realized that what I would do right now would be Hakomi. And that I would know when the time came whether I wanted to also become a LMHC.

{I don’t need a LMHC degree to legally practice as a Hakomi therapist so pursuing it would be a question of my own interest and whatever vision of my practice I have.}

It was very Hakomi of me, I realize now, to choose something simple, to follow the original spark, what was most alive, and to trust where it might lead and that the next steps would become clear in time.

I finished the Personhood series one year, almost to the day, after my fortieth birthday.

Along with the Personhood series, I took Deepening Skills workshops — two days in which graduates of Level II, along with practicing Hakomi therapists, are able to do sessions with volunteer clients in the presence of a coach. Four sessions a day, two days in a row. That’s a lot of Hakomi.

Osmosis.

I also joined two practice groups this summer.

I had became part of a community — our teachers, teachers-in-training, therapists, therapists-in-training, clients. People practicing.

And I cajoled and reminded and asked, “Will there be Level II offered this year?” {It has historically not been offered every year.}

And there was. There was a Level II.

There is.

I am in it.

Level II is five four-day modules over the course of nine months, plus twice-monthly practice groups. Plus lots of reading.

Our first module was last month. Finally, the day it seems like I’ve been waiting for… planning for… the day that led me to it, that I pursued. No grand plan but a limitless longing.

I want Hakomi. I want Hakomi in my life, and I may become a Hakomi therapist. Sometimes I think I’m going to work with new mothers, new families, as a doula or in group settings. I may or may not have a private practice.

And in the meantime, I already have a practice: my life.

I remember a day not so long ago I could not even imagine being in the therapist role. Not at all. I was in awe of people who did it, of how it was such a beautiful process, of how magic seemed to happen. I could not see me in the flow of that magic at all.

And I realized, just the other day, that I can see it now. Just an inkling… I will be able to give to people. I will be able to be with people, completely and fully. That I myself am the magic of healing and humanity.

I am becoming a Hakomi therapist. Right now, right here. From the inside out.

 

*  *  *

Clearing
by Morgan Farley

I am clearing a space
here, where the trees stand back
I am making a circle so open
the moon will fall in love
and stroke these grasses with her silver
I am setting stones in the four directions
stones that have called my name
from mountaintops and river beds,
canyons and mesas
Here I will stand with my hands empty
mind empty under the moon
And if something
takes my life, if a sudden wind
sweeps through me, changing everything
I will not resist
I am ready for whatever comes
But I think it will be
something small, an animal
padding out from the shadows
on delicate paws, or a word
spoken so softly I hear it inside
There is a way to live
that makes the angels cry out in rapture.
There is
a way to live that makes each cell a star.
Come stand with me here, it is
cold, I know, and silent,
nothing is happening
the next breath, and the next,
is the new life

 

 

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Mica

By Stacy Lewis on October 5, 2011

“You are my yummy Mama.”

* * *

“I like being with Papa better than you because he buys me Legos.”

* * *

“I want you to have this flower so you remember about me.”

* * *

“What I want for Christmas, okay, Mama?

  • an angry birds calendar
  • the death star (legos)
  • an iPad

Because iPads are like iPhones for kids.”

* * *

“I’ve known this song my whole life! I know this one! I knew it was this one! I’ve known this song since I was one year old, Mama. And the song called classical, too. I’ve known that one since I was born.”

* * *

* * *

 

 

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The Dream

By Stacy Lewis on October 3, 2011

Okay, forgot all that stuff said in that other post –

Because here is what our week was like:

  • I found Mica at Izzy (9) and Annie’s (11) house, sitting on Izzy’s lap, playing with his face, giggling, and then they built Angry Bird structures together, and stood facing each other, smiling, calling to one another: Izzy! Mica! Izzy! Mica! And then I ended up staying and talking with Izzy’s parents late into the night.
  • Tyler (6) knocking on our door and asking if Orlando and Mica can come out to play four-square, and the boys running outside before he can finish asking — hours and hours of playing four-square!
  • Izzy coming over to our house one night so we could watch him for an hour or so while his parents were out, with Tyler standing behind him on the porch, saying “Can I come, too?” His brother, Robbie (8), showed up a bit later, and they all played a complicated lego game that involved hiding them all over the house.
  • Mica and Orlando being welcomed wholeheartedly/making themselves at home at Izzy and Annie’s house, reading books on the couch, eating snacks, hanging out, while I went home (!!) and read a book. Not long afterward, all the kids came bursting in to our house, ready to play their lego game again.
  • Conversing with a not-quite two-year-old, relearning all those baby signs, getting gorgeous full-body smiles from a curly-haired cutie.
  • And last but not least: one night with our upstairs filled with who have become the regulars — Izzy, Robbie, Tyler, Mica, Orlando — I was sitting on the couch reading while Rom was at the sink cleaning dishes, when Owen (9) walked in and went right upstairs. I said, “Oh, hi, Owen,” and Rom and I laughed and laughed.

Because it’s our dream come true!

Neighbors, being neighborly.

Casual gatherings, deepening connections.

Fabulously fun, luxuriously lax, and really sweet.

Our community now has thirteen kids, ages 14 months to 11 years, plus a few teens. Almost all the kids are boys (!!), except for one three-year-old and one eleven-year-old.

It’s been a busy summer, and it looks like it will be an even busier fall!

 

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September Goodies

By Stacy Lewis on October 1, 2011

The Goodies…

Anything from Rachel, but this for sure: kin

Lovely loveliness from Lauren at Visionwise: busy medicine mama

A new-to-me blog, enjoying each moment of it:

A few thoughts on work, and love:

Capturing the everyday:

      Yes, there’s more!

         

        Top referring sites

        Taking Time
        gentle mothering, gentle living

        Plot 55
        My friend Debbie’s site — full of love, art, and thoughtfulness!

        6512 and Growing
        Growing children, chickens, bees and a large garden at 6512 feet

        Bohemian Twilight
        art, astrology, authentic living; written by Mon from Holistic Mama

        And more from Fearless Saoirse, Twig and Toadstool, and natural parenting center.

        Thank you!

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        Please Don’t

        By Stacy Lewis on September 30, 2011

         

         

        Please Don’t

        tell the flowers – they think

        the sun loves them.

        The grass is under the same

        simple-minded impression

         

        about the rain, the fog, the dew

        – and when the wind blows

        it feels so good

        they lose control of themselves

         

        and swobtoggle wildly

        around, bumping accidentally into their

        slender neighbors.

        Forgetful little lotus eaters,

         

        solar powered

        hydroholics, drawing nourishment up

        through stems into their

        thin green skin,

         

        high on the expensive

        chemistry of mitochondrial explosion

        believing that the dirt

        loves them, the night, the stars –

         

        reaching down a little deeper

        with their pale albino roots,

        all dizzy

        Gillespie with the utter

        sufficiency of everything

         

        – they don’t imagine lawn

        mowers, the four stomachs

        of the cow or human beings with boots

        who stop to marvel

         

        at their exquisite

        flexibility and color.

        They persist in their softheaded

         

        hallucination of happiness.

        But please don’t mention it.

        Not yet. So what

         

        if they are wrong? So what

        if you are right?

        – Tony Hoagland

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        Now at 8

        By Stacy Lewis on September 28, 2011

        Our bedtimes totally unraveled earlier this year. What seemed to have become a pretty straight-forward Brush Teeth and Get in Bed for a Story with Papa turned into mayhem, with Papa snoring in bed as two kids prowled the house searching for Mama, who was hiding out with a book.

        It was late, and I didn’t want to do their bedtime, and everyone was tired.

        But the worst thing about it was this, from Orlando, looking at me doe-eyed from the doorway, dressed in a t-shirt of his father’s:

        “I know you’re going to say no Mama, but I want to sleep with you.”

        It wasn’t even a question, and he already knew the answer, so why was he interrupting me?

        {As you can see, I was feeling really gracious and receptive! It was the starting off with “I know you’re going to say no”… I could feel it crunching up my spine, setting my teeth scraping.}

        And then sometimes, even though I hadn’t wanted to at first, I would shift and then want to be with him and I would come into his room and sit with him and he would be curled up and crying and wouldn’t want to talk to me. He once insisted that he would sleep, alone and without a blanket, curled up on the bean bag.

        I would wait, trying to give him space (as well as space to myself for my own frustration) and sometimes he would come back, and we would connect quietly, and he would sleep, and I would lie awake and despair.

        It was like I was in a bad relationship. An icky, co-dependent one.

        I had somehow acquired an emotionally needy boyfriend who was 42 inches tall with scrawny little legs and arms. All he needed was a few tattoos.

        It calmed down, and shifted a bit, a month or so ago. Bedtime is now a less chaotic endeavor… earlier and more grounded, and especially much better between Orlando and I.

        Though I know there is still some reactivity there, about the “I know you’ll say no” — he is still doing it but now it’s about reading books to him. It has to do with idea that his experience of me is as someone who is not giving him enough. I can tell there is some unpacking to do there. Even just writing about it I feel my stomach relax. More space, not so absolute.

        More space, and what in Hakomi we call a trailhead: a place to take note of, and to explore.

        And today I read Your Eight-Year-Old: Lively and Outgoing. That series of always interesting books that gives me the chance to find the truths of my life buried in generalities (you know, like horoscopes).

        Like this:

        Eight is increasingly aware of himself as a person, is interested in what makes him tick. As one mother of an Eight-year-old remarked, “Even his gestures are like him.” Now the child is conscious of his own appearance, his own personal qualities. He may be torn between the desire to grow up and the wish to remain as he is. And in his dramatic way he exaggerates his problems and dilemmas. (pp 4-5)

        Your typical Eight-year-old, more than the child of any other age, is “all mixed up with” his mother. He is highly dependent upon her and cares not only about what she does but about what she thinks as well. (pp 10)

        It almost seems as if an Eight-year-old cannot get enough of his mother’s attention. He is highly possessive of her in a physical way and wants to hang around her all the time. “He haunts me,” reports one mother. “It’s almost as if he were having a love affair with me,” says another. (pp 10)

        The Six-year-old wants his mother to do what he wants her to. The Eight-year-old wants her to want to do what he wants her to. (pp 10)

        The mother-child relationship at this age is one of the strongest, deepest, most demanding, and yet most tangled to date. (pp 95)Family is very important to the child at this age, and Eights tend to be extremely curious about all that is going on — phone calls, correspondence, conversation. Eight seems to be trying to find his place in relation to the adult world in general and to his parents in particular. This is often hard for him to do. At Seven the child seemed to be building up his concept of family. Now he is trying to make it work, and this is not always easy for him. (pp 16)

        So they hit that on the head.

        And there are other things, too, like being…

        • crazy about money
        • expansive and speedy, “Speedy Eight will run through quite a lot of entertainment in a short time.” (pp 85)
        • especially warm and loving toward babies
        • ready for new adventures and boasting of being able to do anything!

        I return to this series each year because these books help me loosen what seems stuck. I read them to help me see my lovely, individual child more clearly, discovering my appreciation for the quirky universality of being human.

        These books help me relax and not feel so alone (and they sort of annoy me, too, which I wrote about here).

        But most of all, they make me curious.

        Why is eight an age when the child and mother are “all mixed up”? What about that is cultural? How is it related to how we parent and see children? What is part of the natural process of differentiation and what is from the possible disruption of that process because of how we parent or were parented?

        Always… eventually, I am able broaden my perspective and remember, again, to not take it personally, to find the quiet, to look for clarity.

        I remember: It is through attention to myself and others that things untangle. And that when a pattern of reactivity untangles, energy is freed and available for creativity.

        From Changing Consciousness by David Bohm and Mark Edwards:

        The brain and the whole system may be able to act beyond dependence on memory. There are two things that are clearly beyond memory. One is awareness, an alert presence and the other is attention, stretching the mind toward something which means there is a state of great energy with all of your senses working acutely.

        The dangerous animal here is thought (reflexive activity of the residue of what has been done), the kind of thought that is not aware of its origin in memory. According to your attention your intention will develop. The key is in being open to the senses and also being open to seeing the meaning of it all.

        So, in the spirit of an expansive and adventurous eight-year-old, I say: On to the next, new thing!

         

        May my heart open to what comes.
        And may we have lots of fun!

         

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        Biography

        By Stacy Lewis on September 27, 2011

        I grew up in a town.

        On an island, in Alaska.

        The town was all there was, beside mountain and stream, beach and bear.

        There were people, eight thousand of them, so no, I didn’t know everyone.

        But standing on the spine of the world, where land and water meet, my back the mountain, my face the sea, what else could I do — but burrow into forest? What else but to face the scattered reflection of myself across the glitter sea?

        What else, but to be small? And big.

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