You, in My Arm; I, in You, Not As Robin Williams (Post-MFA Edition)

I'm back from my final residency at Pacific Lutheran University's Rainier Writing Workshop, MFA in hand. "So am I a real writer now?"

Actually, those ten days were tremendously validating. Those of us graduating discussed one another's work. We each gave a public reading. Eight minutes isn't much, but we made it count, all of us! The readings are always one of the highlights of residency, and our class set the bar high. I got to visit with my trinity of mentors--incredible writers, dear spirits, inspiring human beings all three of them. Wordcrafter though I am, I can only put my hand on my heart to express the depth of love, affection, respect I feel for them all: Lia Purpura, Fleda Brown, and Stephen Corey. I'm honored to know all my classmates and many from other cohorts in the program--great writers, special people, several friends for life.
I left the residency with a new mandate to honor my writing, and new possible contacts in my new home. (And yes, it does feel like home here in Tucson!)

But something else happened during that time. We were at residency when Robin Williams passed. Although I'm not a huge movie watcher, his was definitely one of the most ubiquitous and beloved names of my growing up. I've written a little on here fairly recently about some of my own experience with suicide, and even though I shielded myself from the media around his passing, it triggered a lot in me. I relived my own periods at and over that edge. I asked myself all over again why am I still here. I felt like a failure because I never "succeeded." 

A few nights ago I dreamed. I was with a beloved, close friend. We were so close, we could energetically enter one another's bodies and feel one another's physical sensations. Then I cut my arm--my left forearm (as y'all know, I'm left handed, so that's quite a castration) -- I cut it from wrist to elbow, deep and wide. And the instant after I'd done it, I realized my dear friend was "in" my arm at that time. She could feel the cutting and the cut, the pulsing of broken veins, the warmth of spillage. I could feel her feeling it. I was horrified.

When I woke, that moment was with me. Going forward, how can I allow myself to get back to that deceiving place of believing my actions don't affect anyone else?

You are in the veins of my arm. And I'll use that arm for writing now.

Interlude: Staying on Earth, A Room of One's Own

http://ulteriorharmony.org/?p=719
I'm developing a conversation about who we are and how what we feed within us helps us be/become who we are; about the choice to eat or not to eat; about fasting and alternative sources of energy; about my own unique needs and how my explorations might pertain to others. And I'm talking about time vortices. All of it in the context of new to Tucson and new to having my own space.

But today I take a small interlude to mark the anniversary of the day I tried to end it all and ended up sticking around. That was a very, very different version of myself, in a dark place. This time last year I was waiting for a lot of blood, confused, liminal from a brief visit to the other side, probably somewhat relieved at bottom. 
It's not something I speak of very much at all, and I haven't yet written about it concertedly either except right after the event, but that, I sense, is coming.
For now, this hot, peaceful day, I focus on gratitude that I am this new form of my old self, and that I am here.
I wore my healer's gold, which is actually green, perfect for me...

 I welcomed the gift of affirmation cards by putting them up in the right places (I hope you ca read the affirmations on this mirror, itself a gift from Tom James).

I didn't return to life all changed and perfected--not in the least, to my disappointment at the time. We have to do our own work. My wise friend Janice, who's a mother, says "we all have to do our own push ups (and let our children do theirs)."
I'm now here to attest that a room of one's own can help with that. My bedroom isn't perfected yet, but here's how it looks now: 

 Yes, the bed is close enough to the ceiling that I hit my head sometimes. A good reminder that beds are for sleeping in, not living in! I'm going to get some glow in the dark strips for the lower beams. And some affirmations cards for the ceiling! You can see the rebounder, and the little desk where I have fun things like coloring pencils and mandalas, notebooks, pens, notecards to write to people, and a small selection of my favorite spiritual books to be rotated with those on the other shelves. There's also a walk-in closet and a huge bookshelf to the left of the photo.
There's a string of lights twined around the bed, and I got a red bulb for the lamp up in the bed area, since red light is supposed to be best for bedtime.

It's been almost part of my spirituality for so long to be able to lay my head down anywhere I was sent to. Creating an intentional space feels like a great affirmation of my continuing to choose life.