An homage to my bivouacs

There is something magical about turning thirty. In the past month, I have found myself in the utmost state of poverty and riches all at once, and it has brought me closer to what I truly value: relatedness, within and without. How does such 'relatedness' work? Well, it starts with an urge to touch base with another soul, and not in a merely transactional way. For me, we connect best when we are able to set aside time and space to instill mutual understanding, and ultimately, mutual acceptance. Thankfully, I grew up around avid conversationalists, who lovingly raised me as best as they could. I send metta love to my mom boo, who has been delighting in my laughter since I was a child singing in the back seat. She brought me to my grandparents' home on a regular basis, and of course, I was always welcome to sit at the table after Grandma asked, "Any news?" Then she would proceed to gossip about everyone at The Moose Lodge and in her neighborhood. In fact, it was my maternal grandmother's assertive, no frills demeanor that equally intimidated and delighted me as a child, but has continually challenged me to be heard, even if it pisses someone else off. It hasn't been easy, and it is perhaps my fear of alienating folks that I save this candor for writing. But after Grandma's death in 2009, I started channeling her in poems, at first writing homages and then embodying a bit of her fiery emotionality. I didn't see her cry often, but when she did, it felt as if the world was on call for her. And when she laughed, I felt lighter than music. I've had dreams about her in the past year or so where she is sick or unable to move, and these images disturbed me greatly; of course, I hadn't recognized that grandma in my dreams was not merely a camcorder playing back memories of her suffering, but my internalized aspects of her. That grandma I saw who was suffering was in fact my psyche, the spritely pistol whose unwieldy diaphragm enabled my mother to be born unexpectedly. My grandmother lives in me, and she is part of my soul. For Jungians such as myself, individuation, or coming into one's full potential, is contingent on the integration of the various parts of ourselves. The psyche is not only alive at the "ego" level, but persists throughout our unconscious experiences of reality into what is deemed the "collective unconscious," the repository of our ancestor's experiences. I say 'ancestors' rather than human beings, as I believe it is important to include our fellow planet and all of its inhabitants, as part of this psychic, primordial energy. Energy is a tricky topic, and the word is thrown around like a frisbee, going every which way and that. I guess that is what energy does. =p However, it is essential to think of any manifestations of family members or strangers within us as parts of ourselves, and living beings. This may sound a bit cuckoo to you, but if you can accept that we are conscious even as we sleep, even though we are limited in terms of motor activity, it makes sense that our brains continue processing information throughout the night. More importantly, if we look at dreams not as mere cerebral housecleaning, but a sort of active storytelling on behalf of our survival, then perhaps we can humor the grandmas, demons, animals and places that pop up in our heads while we sleep. Since I was a child, I have had very vivid dreams, and it was only in the past two years that I started doing dream work. At first, I was a bit skeptical of some of the analysis I heard in group sessions, but then, I started seeing very strong connections between my waking life and my dream world, and I couldn't ignore this. Ah yes. So this takes me back to my grandmother, believe it or not. In 2009, the summer she died I was at odds with a boyfriend who I thought I loved very much, but who did love me at the same frequency, so to speak. In fact, I don't think he really loved me at all, but that can be contested in some romance novel written by Stephanie Meyer or maybe Elizabeth Gilbert, if her marriage doesn't work out. Yes, I still think about Eat, Pray, Love every once in awhile. But it was at that point in my life that I wanted things to work out with this man child, and I had my head completely up my ass so much that instead of seeing what I could learn from my grandmother's own story, I was constantly dreaming about him being either too busy for me or disinterested altogether. This is when I started going to dream work, and recognized that he had become an animus projection, which is very detrimental to the individuation process (see M. Scott Peck's work on cathexis in The Road Less Travelled). This means we project our ideal masculine qualities onto an actual person we are close to in waking life. The animus is the male aspect of the female psyche, and the anima is the female aspect of the male psyche. This is not to say that we are so heavily gendered, but think of it more in an Eastern sense, like yin and yang. You need both masculine and feminine properties in order to manifest reality. Both 'dark' and 'light' or 'wet' and 'dry' are needed. In other words, we need a 'blurred' sense of gender, or a balanced set of multiple qualities, in order to be fully functioning individuals in a greater community. Here is the thing about my relationship to my grandmother: she embodies the fearless, emboldened, industrious part of me, and it is quite frankly the part that I balk at, as it seems to get to people's hearts. My dad once said that my grandma could be mean, and it was true. She had a knack for speaking her mind, and she made some keen judgements about family members, strangers and friends. But then again, what is wrong with the 'bitch'? I hesitate to call any woman, even if she is 'difficult,' a bitch, as it serves no purpose except to alienate and undermine what could be called agentic (thanks, Tom Tom). What is wrong with a woman calling it as it is, and still being able to be nurturing and cognizant of her own limitations? My grandmother may have had a sharp tongue, but she had a very loving heart, and a very shrewd one, too. But alas! the cunning woman is feared, too. That said, to see my grandmother dying inside of me suggests that my own 'agentic' parts needed to be fed by being expressed. Even if my assertions come out awkwardly, they will improve with practice. And perhaps I can balance my grandmother's knavish tongue with my diplomatic qualities, which I get from my mother, and perhaps my father; even though he is a bit of a hot head, he also has apt social skills, and can be very eloquent in social contexts. And my mother? She is the queen of chill. She can withstand just about anything, but has the capacity for great anger when necessary. Let's not forget the friends, lovers, teachers, writers, cousins, family members, peers and many others who have informed my psychic development. Or context. We can't forget the environment at large, or culture. But yes, the purpose of this post is to illustrate the importance of tending to ourselves, and in this way, being more capable of tending to our relationships and our greater communities. I am a very introverted person, but let's be honest: I thrive on conversation. When I was a teenager, I remember saying that my ideal partner would be someone "I could have a 'deep' conversation with." Now I have probably had a very naive conception of what that means, and I won't go into much detail, but over the past two years, I have experienced the joy and pain of highly invested friendships, and some not so monumental romantic trysts. But it was my friendships with very strong headed, competent women that inspired me to keep my head on straight and speak up. And, it was not easy, as I found that even when I was intimidated or pissed off by these women, they were easily hurt by me, too. It was my own free spirit, emotionality and eloquence that got to them, and all in all, I have learned that we needed each other because ultimately, we loved each other through all of it. I don't know what happened to Grace, my first Leo roommate, but I think of her fondly, and send her metta love. I am still good friends w/ Marge, and I think very highly of her, and am always indebted to her for teaching me the power of self-reliance, and being friendly to strangers. And both of these women are smart as hell. Graduate school was hard, but it was these women who saw me through, and were there for me. Furthermore, I have to send love to Nora, who I rarely talk with now, but who inspired me to take care of myself, love poetry and be in tune with my feelings and social justice. She also got me to take an honest look at myself, and was always able to recommend helpful spiritual resources, as well as romantic venues. It was her openness to my vulnerability that spurred me to try Ok Cupid, an online dating site that I regarded w/ a fair amount of skepticism, until one day, I was so tired of fucking around w/ disinterested man children that I said "Shit. Okay, Cupid. Do what you do." And believe it or not, it did. I'll save that love story for some future E Harmony dating commercial (SUCH a joke, I wouldn't dare advertise my coupledom on television, not to mention this blog..), but it takes me back to the new title of this blog. Whatever do I mean by 'bivouac,' anyways? What the hell, woman? Well, I originally associated the term with a covered front porch, as I went to a party back in 2002 that was awe inspiring because of one conversation that reaffirmed my firm insistence in introspection. Gordon Davis, one of my childhood friend's older brothers, happened to be at the 'Bivouac,' a kinda run-down but kinda hot in an indie way house with, yep, you got it, a funky painted porch. So there we were talking about books or something, and he said, "It's really important to keep a journal." And I was like, "Yeah, yeah, you're right." And so, I have struggled with this habit for the past ten years, but then, I do it, now and again. You could consider this blog an online journal, but I have several journals for several occasions. Whatever your game, you can do the journal thang. Just keep it real, you know? But the porch, that whole bivouac business. I grew up on porches, and I mean, I really did. My first e-mail address, my name was 'Clarisse McClellan,' the deviant young woman in Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 who asks Montag, the main book burner cum 'fireman,' if he was happy. Now, I am not as into all of that emo stuff, because obviously, she was asking him a rhetorical question on a rainy night in the land of burningbooklandia, but yeah. She was happy, and he wasn't. Of course, her happiness was contingent on her support network. Clarisse lived in a huge house that had its lights on at all hours (and if you read Bradbury's story "The Pedestrian," you will see this continued motif of deviance as lights on, not darkness, as this suggests innovation and THOUGHT, not the deluge of complacency). Her family would stay up all night talking restively, and it was for this that they were exiled, not the books they had hidden away. So it is this model that somehow spoke to my earlier childhood of being crowded around Grandma's table talking, or walking to the blacktop with my dear Grandma Dillard, or sitting across the bar while Mom told me about her day, or being in a circle of desks in class, or in a rap session at church camp, or talking through a movie, or in the past few months, being bent over candles listening to eighties' music, or walking to Namaste (again!) or driving across the Mojave with a girlfriend,or being perched on the edge of my seat at Starbucks or on a couch in a room full of kindred spirits, or sitting on the ashram's terrace watching hummingbirds fly to and fro, and knowing that yes, yes, this is where I belong. This porch is magical. And so, it is with my heart completely free that I set this bivouac on fire, as I once heard something quite sad yet quite wise, and hence its cut in my memory: "Life is full of meetings, departures and reunions." The good, the wicked, the beautiful, the mundane, the inspired, the passionate...they all come and go, but this is why I chose to honor the bivouac in the first place. Little did I know that bivouac is not just an awning, but a temporary camp or shelter set up by campers or mountaineers or an army. And with one week left until I move back to my previous city, I move in with my passionate partner, with four dollars to my name, and of course, some fear in my heart, I embrace the bivouac in me, and I embrace the bivouac in you and every living being I meet, for I am learning that it is Brahman, or the OM, that is eternal. And that universal sound, or that infinite ocean, whatever you like, is within us and without us. Whatever your shelter be, let it be known that you are the habitus, or dwelling place, of a much greater energy. It is this richness that I celebrate in what seems to be the worst recession ever. Even with an MA degree, I have tasted poverty, but it has thankfully brought me closer to my loved ones, and has taught me that no matter how prescient money may seem, it is only money, after all. As one wise lady said, "I am more than my checkbook." It was Fugazi who said "I am not my pants." So you see that when we live for the eternal, we break down the delusion of wages, and understand that without a greater sense of industry, we will never come into community. I'll keep it at that for now, but one last thing. I have been learning about the chakras over the past year, and I have discovered that the Sanskrit word for the heart chakra is anahata, which means 'unstruck.' Think about that gem for awhile; the heart chakra possesses a green hue, and it is unaffected. Note that it is not disffected, but detached. It gives and receives freely, as it is not motivated by gain, but only by its strength and vigor. When we are 'unstruck' by the slavery of our society, we can undermine it. We can abandon it entirely, and create our own shelters. Whatever your thang, you must imagine it first. And to wrap it up, Rosario Ferre, one of my favorite authors, writes that "Imagination is irreverence towards the establishment...I have a world inside of me." Or, take The Beatles, who said "Imagine all the people..." Or Obama, who says "Yes. Yes we can." And in the name of Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of beauty and abundance, I say "Yes, we will. Our bivouacs will rise, and the rest will tremble in fearfulness (see Occupy movement. Potential play list/poem list that empowers me to fight the oppression to follow?..Thanks for reading. I appreciate your comments.