tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32573992849714924592024-03-05T07:02:05.511-05:00Somewhere in TransitionJulia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.comBlogger459125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-49017053888209201972021-08-06T18:21:00.007-04:002021-08-06T18:22:35.314-04:00The Unadapted Ones...<p>Have not posted here since the whole COVID debacle, since I now blog at <a href="https://www.theunadaptedones.com/blog" target="_blank">The Unadapted Ones</a>. I have a lot of news and changes in my life since moving blog over there in December 2019, including getting COVID and long haul COVID in 2020 bleeding into 2021. Fun times! New publications in Prairie Schooner and Heavy Feather Review, and the wonderful news of now having a literary agent for my memoir-in-progress, in large part thanks to this most recent <a href="https://www.theunadaptedones.com/post/how-yoga-ptsd-a-friend-led-to-my-autism-diagnosis" target="_blank">Unadapted blog post</a>.</p><p>So, if you want to follow this particular bouncing ball, that's the place to go!</p><p>I also have some openings in a writing retreat in October in Scotland and hope to begin teaching yoga again soon, though right now need to focus on finishing up my new book proposal. You can follow my website and blog for latest info and announcements, publication links, etc.</p><p>Thanks for joining me on this rollercoaster life thing. Hope you are safe and well.</p>Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-11080860545747738862019-12-31T18:33:00.000-05:002019-12-31T18:33:14.974-05:00Bye bye 2019 and the 2010s...I am ready for the Roaring Twenties.I wanted to write a year summary and felt daunted, then realized it should be a decade summary and was more daunted. This decade has been a rollercoaster from start to finish.<br />
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A thumbnail (the details are all here in this blog, at least from 2011 onward, with reference to 2010).<br />
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At the end of 2009, things were looking up. I had finally finished my PhD and was dragging myself out of the worst of the grief over my miscarriage in 2007, a day after my wedding.<br />
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But at the very end of the year, my 19 year old cat died while I was in the US (at the time I lived in London) and then on that day I had what turned out to be the last phone conversation with my father on his birthday (same day my beloved cat died). A few days later, at the beginning of 2010, he was rushed to ICU, and I flew out to Sacramento to see him before he died. <a href="https://burninghousepress.com/2018/09/08/memoriam-by-julia-lee-barclay-morton/" target="_blank">I have written about that prior</a>, but that floored me...but also clearing out his storage area I found photos of my grandparents when they were young. So while I was in a grief fog clusterfuck, I also found a seed of what would become my life for most of the decade, writing about my grandmothers. But first, months of grief fog for a father I barely knew, who I lost twice, once in life and then again in death.<br />
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This decade has been like that. Oh joy, then death, then in the death grief fog a seed...and something grows...then joy, then death, then...rinse repeat.<br />
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My second marriage, begun with such hope and joy that was cruelly crushed the first day of our honeymoon (the miscarriage), was disintegrating in slow motion by 2010 and by 2011 had ended. That along with wanting to work on this book about my grandmothers—which desire also had contributed to my closing up my London based theater company, Apocryphal—led me to make a leap with no safety net back to the states. I say no safety net because when made decision no job or place to live, but I was rich in friends, one of which let me stay at her place to make that decision.<br />
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In the summer, I spent time with my cousin Darcy, celebrating her remission from cancer, and researching our shared grandmother, my mother's mother, in Minneapolis. Earlier that summer I met the lost part of my grandfather's family, lost because he had had to change his name during the Red Scare to save his job. I found clues to his real identity in all the stuff in my father's chaotic storage unit in January 2010. Again with the seeds.<br />
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Then, poof, back in NYC...where I discovered Inwood at the top tip of Manhattan when trying to find someplace I could afford, and moved here. That was a great find. The parks, the green, and then in October, the beginning of autumn in Inwood Hill Park was a revelation. This was October 2011. I had found a job at Bronx Community College and then later at Hunter.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ugo the IWW (Inwood Writing Workshop) cat</td></tr>
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A month later, I adopt Ugo the cat, who I found online at WaHi Cat Colony. He was an adult cat, so harder to place and still available. When I saw him, I knew he was mine.<br />
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I then am shortlisted for a full-time teaching post back in UK in May 2012 and fly back to interview and audition for it. They choose someone else. My ego is bruised, but I am so grateful for the ability to come back to NYC that this is the feeling that takes over.<br />
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My stepfather Tom sends me a lovely affirmative note about this.<br />
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A week later, Tom is in the ICU. He dies a few days after my birthday, Bloomsday (during which I read him Ulysses) and Father's Day. I am holding his feet when he dies and feel giant waves of love that almost knock me over. I am devastated and moved. I have a dream of a net and a diamond. Indra's Diamond my mother says. She is more bereft than me. Who wouldn't be?<br />
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I end up finding my own apartment on the top floor of a five-story walk-up in Inwood. Tom left all his kids including me (his step-daughter) a small amount of money, which was enough to furnish a new place (with Ikea and Housing Works and Freecycle). I got it all ready for me to live in, including my own study. I began to work more in earnest on my book. And decide to take some extra time to sort out my life.<br />
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Then comes Hurricane Sandy. Happily, my apartment survived and Inwood had electricity, so was able to host people up here who were stranded downtown. Sadly, we lost some huge trees in Inwood Hill Park. The beginning of understanding how vulnerable NYC is to climate change sinks in.<br />
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A couple months later, a friend who I had met at a meditation retreat where we were accidental roommates talks me into online dating, and I meet my future husband almost immediately.<br />
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Didn't see that coming. I was just trying to get a date before I turned 50.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John and me in Montreal at Botanical Gardens Valentine's Day 2013</td></tr>
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Much happiness ensues of course, because it's super fun to be in love. Then of course all the issues rear their head about money and citizenship, since he is Canadian. Very long story short, we do everything by the book and he ends up down here, but there was a bunch of stuff he had to deal with in Canada and that all was way more complicated than he would have wished. We survived it all, but it was challenging, as in years of being challenging, in an apartment I had chosen for me alone, not two people.<br />
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On the happy side, I kept working on my book, got support from a crowd-funding campaign (all this is in blog circa 2014) and other votes of encouragement. John helped me with all of this and has been a relentless (in a good way) cheerleader of my work. I was given fellowships to residencies, and that helped, too. I directed a staged reading of '<i>'whatever God is..."</i> and Ian W. Hill directed <i>My First Autograce Homeography (1973-74) </i>at The Brick, all in 2014<i>. </i>My first short story publication as an adult also happened in 2014 with <i><a href="https://thestockholmreview.org/the-soderberg-section/the-god-thing-by-julia-lee-barclay-morton/" target="_blank">The God Thing</a></i>, which has since been nominated or been a finalist in some awards, which is gratifying.<br />
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There have been many highways and byways with the book, <i><a href="http://www.theotherstories.org/episodes/episode-57-excerpts-from-the-amazing-true-imaginary-autobiography-of-dick-jani-by-julia-lee-barclay-morton/" target="_blank">The Amazing True Imaginary Autobiography of Dick and Jani</a>,</i> and with luck it will get published fairly soon. That is a long story that I cannot give details about, because much is in process. But it had been a steep learning curve for a theater chick to figure out publishing, and wow, it's different, but OK.<br />
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However, I was beginning to figure stuff out and making some headway when I came back from a lovely yoga retreat at Kripalu in December 2016 to a phone call from my mother that David Berry, my ex-stepfather, the playwright, had died suddenly of a heart attack, boom. <a href="https://burninghousepress.com/2019/05/08/too-fucking-late-for-all-that-by-julia-lee-barclay-morton/" target="_blank">I have written about that a lot too</a>. But his sudden death floored me. It was two months after the DTs struck the US, and I was convinced that is what killed him, a gay Vietnam Vet artist. What greater insult than a homophobic insane person who had 'bone spurs' that he used to weasel out of service in Vietnam.<br />
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I lurched through another series of months in a grief fog, but also managed to finish another book I had begun in September. However, I was adjunct professoring, and it was killing me. I was exhausted all the time, and the pay, in case you don't know, in terms of hours work, is basically minimum wage.<br />
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I realized it was killing me right around the time I read a book that is the most iconic book of the decade for me: <i>The Body Keeps the Score</i>. I mark the time I read that book (early 2017) as the moment when I realized I was not a broken toy. But instead had a normal response to severe traumatic events. I cannot overstate how important this moment was. How healing, and how much my life has changed since.<br />
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From then on (Feb-March 2017), I mark as an existential shift in my understanding of myself and the world. I quit being an adjunct and decided to go full-time freelance, which has worked better than I could have dreamed. I decided to go to Westray, one of the Orkney Isles in Scotland in June, where I had not been since 2010. I had written my PhD there, and fallen in love with Orkney in 2003. It has always felt like a spiritual home, and some part of me feels severed from my soul until I get back there. I had postponed this trip a number of times because of my relationship with John and trying to work out schedules and time, etc. But I knew this time I could postpone it no more. My mother and John were going to go with me, but then could not for separate reasons.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two stones from Ring of Brodgar in Orkney</td></tr>
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Dear reader, I went anyway. And that made all the difference.<br />
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I stayed on in the olde Manse overlooking where the North Sea and Atlantic meet and revised my second book, <i>Girls Meeting God</i>, to get it in shape for submission, and taught my first ever private writing workshop, on this small Orkney Island, which was a success and a revelation.<br />
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John meanwhile was able to sort out his Canadian albatross, and so when I returned, we were in much better shape on many levels.<br />
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Thus began the life I have now: writing, teaching writing workshops, coaching writers, reviewing manuscripts, editing, and sometimes back to theater.<br />
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Speaking of which, when the #metoo movement began in 2017 that allowed me to write my stage text <i>On the edge of/a cure</i>. Working with MoveOn and their text team to help elect Doug Jones in December 2017 allowed me to have a reading of this play. I did not realize until seeing this political work effect a positive change how paralyzed I had been...ever since watching DT stalk around behind Hillary Clinton on the debate stage. I could not move during the debate. Literally. But did not realize how totally paralyzed I was in terms of a certain kind of voice until I wasn't.<br />
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<i>On the edge of</i> allowed me to speak about things in a way I never have done before. It was also possible because of reading <i>The Body Keeps the Score</i> and Leigh Gilmore's <i>Limits of Autobiography</i>. In 2018, another play I had written in response to another trauma response I was having because of various terrorist incidents, <i>Shit</i>, was produced by IATI as part of their play development program. I got to see another director work with my texts and that was lovely.<br />
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Other reading that inspired me along this journey include Elena Ferrante's Neopolitan Quartet, Joan Didion's everything, Jennifer Egan's writing, and the ongoing ever present influence of Doris Lessing. With some key assists from James Baldwin and David Foster Wallace. Yeah, it's weird, I know that. If you know me, you understand the breadth, depth, and gaping holes in my weirdly selective knowledge of Whatever.<br />
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2018 saw the expansion of the freelance work, up to and including starting a retreat for other writers in Westray, an experiment that succeeded enough to repeat it in 2019, twice, and yes, going again in 2020. I also tried again in the spring of 2018 to heal from the traumatic miscarriage in 2007. I went to a workshop at Kripalu hosted by outside teachers that was so wrong it was almost hilarious. But when I went to the Kripalu yoga classes I felt at home. I made a decision: I would become if at all possible a Kripalu yoga teacher so could be part of carrying on this important lineage, which is the opposite of spiritual bypass faux positivity crap that makes my skin crawl.<br />
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Back track to the shit storm of 2016, to remember that was the year also that my beloved cousin Darcy's asshole cancer returned. So the drumbeat underneath all my activity was: how long does she have left and how could I help? The answer was: all I could do was make phone calls and send crystals and gifts when possible, and she would die in September of 2018. My biggest fear in leading the retreat in 2018 was that she would die before I got home. Instead I just got a severe case of frozen shoulder. And the news <i>Girls Meeting God</i> was a semi-finalist for a book prize. The gods are fucking weird. In 2018 John was able to travel to Westray with me, and we had a week together as a 5-year-delayed honeymoon, so that was cool, too, but again all was overcast with the reality of Darcy's illness, the shoulder, and starting a writing retreat. Someday, we will have a proper honeymoon.<br />
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I was able to get to St. Paul at the end of August to see Darcy before she died. I wrote about that, too, and someday maybe that will get published. It took me well over a year to write about it even as a short essay. She was the closest I ever had to a sister so the word 'cousin' doesn't cut it as a term to describe her meaning to me. Suffice to say her dying plummeted me into a grief fog that was so complete, I have almost no memory of autumn 2018. I do remember trying to revise my book and sending it in, leading a workshop somehow, going to her memorial in November and then my memory does not return until December 2018 when I went to a very good healing workshop run by Aruni, who is a Kripalu veteran teacher, on grief, loss and renewal. Without that series of days and sharing with a few other people who were equally poleaxed by grief, I am not sure I would be functional.<br />
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The one thing I was able to do consistently throughout 2018 was text with MoveOn and that helped the Dems flip the House anyway. Did thousands of texts a day, like clockwork. I am proud of the work I did and the many, many others who did so, too.<br />
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Then in 2019 I focused on healing. I had intended to do yoga teacher training in October 2018 but my shoulder ixnayed that. (The body Does keep the score.) I began studying Qi Gong with Alicia Fox, which was transformative. I decided not to try to write because I was exhausted. I taught two workshops, though.<br />
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Artistic discoveries of this year that were revelatory include Hilma af Klint at the Guggenheim in January and April, her paintings gave me life. The fact she knew a hundred years ago her work was not legible until the future was amazing, and now they quiver with meaning. In October, I discovered Betye Saar at the new MoMA. She is in her 90s, and only now being discovered. If you are a female artist, you best live long to see your work recognized in your own lifetime.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Graduating on Summer Solstice at Kripalu</td></tr>
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I also directed a staged reading of <i>On the edge of/a cure</i>. That was both incredibly healing and challenging work that took place between February and May 2019. By the time I was done with that, I was ready to finally do the Kripalu yoga teacher training in June, which shifted me irrevocably. It was the capstone I intuited it might be that drew all the parts together, all the fragments somehow settling into one person. I have written a lot about that, too, but mentioning it here again because key to so much. Getting underneath fixed, linear story has been a cornerstone of my artistic project and lo and behold it's the cornerstone of yoga, too. Fancy that. But to embody this rather than just have an intellectual or artistic framework is a whole other level of living it.<br />
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At the 2018 retreat I worked on a novella and short story. The short story <i><a href="https://www.nomadicpress.org/store/2019bindleawardwinnerfiction?fbclid=IwAR3Cg8cDLVA7E25IrCo6WwysCFAZVCQcbxH9d7t2HUNagbgE2OlCoc6-ZCQ" target="_blank">White shoe lady</a></i> won the Nomadic Press chapbook contest in May and was published in December, and the novella I am about to begin revising. In the 2019 retreats, I began writing about my nonlinear journey through yoga. I am writing a lot now. If I had not allowed myself the long down time, though, I don't think I would have the reserves I do now.<br />
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During 2019 my workshops and retreats doubled and I now have numerous coach clients, and my own work is beginning to find a home. I am now teaching yoga, which may not seem like a big deal, but me it is huge, because to teach the way I do means embodying radical self-acceptance and compassion, so it keeps me honest.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the shelves that John built! So much more space & writing can breathe (me too!)</td></tr>
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And equally, I spent the last week before Christmas organizing my office and the last few days doing the same thanks to John building me new shelves. John is doing well, too, in school and full time work, thriving in a city he moved to in his fifties, not a small thing.<br />
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In other words, instead of rushing off somewhere Else to heal or whatever, I am here, in my own space, in my own skin, in my own life. I am 56. It has taken this long. Oh, and I finally created a website, which relates to all this, because I brought together all my various moving parts. <a href="https://www.theunadaptedones.com/" target="_blank">The Unadapted Ones</a>. Check it out. Most likely my next blog post will be there, the one that greets the New year and new decade. This is the one that sums up the decade this blog covers. Maybe I am more settled now. I fear saying that, however, less it calls upon a real or psychic earthquake... I began this blog in lieu of a website in 2011. I wasn't sure what I wanted to be when I grew up...<br />
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For 2020, I am present and accounted for, accepting reality as it is rather than as I would hope or fear it to be (as much as possible, understanding no one human ever totally can do that). If I keep staying sober one day at a time in February, I will be 33 years clean and sober. I should add without that rock solid ground, None of this is possible. And without the companionship and counsel of many other people who also stay clean and sober one day at a time, I would be bereft.<br />
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So...Happy New Year. Happy New Decade.<br />
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Find what brings you joy and go towards that more. Accept what is weighing you down is in fact weighting you down, and if possible, slough it off. And if you have any trauma in your background, and you have not read it yet, for the love of all that is holy read <i>The Body Keeps the Score</i>.<br />
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Let's help carry each other to shore.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">path to Maes Sand outside of West Manse in Westray</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the water the shore the distance the light the shadow...Westray</td></tr>
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<br />Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-27463791288706452642019-12-17T17:17:00.000-05:002019-12-17T17:17:36.938-05:00Chapbook published and FINALLY a website!One of the reasons I have been so silent of late is creating a website. Finally! Back when I started this blog in 2011, I mentioned the need for a website, but I started this blog instead. I called it Somewhere in Transition, because I was, between so many identities and then more than I even knew, between countries and relationships and so much else besides.<br />
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Well, this year, I finally have found a way to put all these fragmented parts of me in one place, the aptly named website: <a href="http://theunadaptedones.com/" target="_blank">The Unadapted Ones</a>. Please do check it out. This blog will eventually migrate over there, since there is a blog option. As of now they coexist, and you can link to this blog from that site, but am guessing in about a year, I will be mostly there. I won't take this blog down, because it's a record of eight years of my life, and also still has the most comprehensive list of publications, etc.</div>
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However, this was a big step, and when I pressed 'publish' on the site, I felt nauseous, but so far the response has been overwhelmingly positive, so go check it out and tell me what you think. You can subscribe to that site, too, and get updates on all parts of my life, including: publications, writing workshops, writing retreats, coaching and manuscript review services and yoga classes, among other things. I will be adding features and sections over time, but wanted to publish it now so finally had a place to send folks instead of grumbling about how I don't have a website yet. My favorite thing is, I finally have all the wonderful testimonials people have written me over these past few years about my teaching and coaching and retreats all in one place. Hurrah!</div>
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<a href="https://www.nomadicpress.org/store/2019bindleawardwinnerfiction?fbclid=IwAR3Cg8cDLVA7E25IrCo6WwysCFAZVCQcbxH9d7t2HUNagbgE2OlCoc6-ZCQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="957" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-z2B3iIwCfvMM46vGp4Qr04dRswsui1UvIMk6t9JtkAOhruVsgWz6MIl8VTblwvkECtsjwRE5V9WWppgNYEnCa9vu9R3R5N84_tWTcu_AgfEQiCSlQX11kwNbT912w0yMmiR1NwmhcE/s320/Screen+Shot+2019-11-30+at+2.06.08+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
The other big news is my short story <i><a href="https://www.nomadicpress.org/store/2019bindleawardwinnerfiction?fbclid=IwAR3Cg8cDLVA7E25IrCo6WwysCFAZVCQcbxH9d7t2HUNagbgE2OlCoc6-ZCQ" target="_blank">White shoe lady</a></i>, which won the <a href="https://www.nomadicpress.org/store/2019bindleawardwinnerfiction?fbclid=IwAR3Cg8cDLVA7E25IrCo6WwysCFAZVCQcbxH9d7t2HUNagbgE2OlCoc6-ZCQ" target="_blank">Nomadic Press Bindle Award </a>in May is now published as a limited edition, illustrated chapbook! You can order here! I wrote this story on Westray in 2018 during the first writing retreat I led there, and it was inspired by growing up as a young child in rural Maine in the 1960s. Support a great press and order the chapbook! You can then read the story, too.<br />
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I hope to have some more good news to tell you in a month or so, but it's still being worked out so can't make it public yet, but fingers crossed and all that.</div>
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So, here's to bringing all the pieces together and embracing <a href="http://theunadaptedones.com/" target="_blank">The Unadapted Ones</a>!</div>
Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-78246371412123576312019-12-09T14:09:00.003-05:002019-12-09T14:09:50.880-05:00In Blue reviewSometimes I use my blog to review theater that I see that interests me enough to write about it, and this is such a time. I was lucky enough to see<a href="https://thetanknyc.org/calendar-1/inblue-3" target="_blank"> <i>In Blue</i>, written and directed by Ran Xia at The Tank</a> in NYC on Friday night (running through December 15), and wanted to share some thoughts on that.<br />
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The play does not reveal itself easily. The subjects are poet and playwright Else Lasker-Schuler and Blue Rider painter Franz Marc. I am on not an expert on either of them, and am not going to pretend to be for this review, though I am a fan of The Blue Rider (Der Blaue Reiter) school of painting, its most famous member being Kandinsky. I went to the play in part because of a memory of going to the museum in Munich devoted to this work back in 1984 and being blown away by the riot of colors and the sheer energy of the work.<br />
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Franz and Else's connection is not clearly factual or fictional, though according to the play there were postcards Franz sent to Else, and he illustrated one of her poems with his famous blue horses. But the sense of <i>In Blue</i> is that it is working much like abstract-expressionist paintings, vivid imagery that does not cohere to a specific story in the naturalistic sense of that word. What makes it hold together are the performances of Alyssa Simon and Finn Kilgore, who are grounded in each moment wherever it may go. Simon as Lasker-Schuler especially needs to move through multiple levels of presence, sometimes even within the same sentence, and does so with grace, ease, and humor, whereas Kilgore is an anchored fictional presence, seemingly evoked from Lasker-Schuler's memory and dreams. The direction and use of the beautiful set designed by Sarah Adkins and lights designed gorgeously by Becky Heisler McCarthy is imaginative and wonderful to watch unfold (sometimes literally). And, a special shout out to the costume designer Florence Lebas for sourcing the historically accurate and drop-dead gorgeous Lasker-Schuler shoes, which alone are worth the price of admission. The musician, Luke Santy, who is credited as performing a 'live score' is also a delight, and his presence and live music, including his interaction with Simon, adds a necessary present tense sense to the moment to moment flow of this multi-layered piece.<br />
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I am not attempting to be overly oblique here, but just wanting to evoke a sense of what it is like to watch this show. At first I became obsessed with dates (since many were mentioned) and where we were from moment to moment. Then I gave up and it got easier to follow. In the end, the bits, like in a Blue Rider painting, revealed themselves as a whole. The difference between theater and a painting being of course that the painting you see all at once whereas the play accumulates over time. So, I would counsel patience while watching, as it will all eventually come together, not in a linear whole but like a certain kind of painting or experimental music.<br />
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I do recommend going to see this play, as it gives insights into the early 20th Century, with some uncanny and uncomfortable parallels to our own tumultuous beginning of the 21st, and to a kind of love and connection via art and words that transcends—albeit in a troubled fashion—even such inconveniences as death and time.Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-57574649917958520012019-11-27T22:39:00.000-05:002019-11-27T22:39:00.278-05:00Yoga for Writers and (over)Thinkers - an invitation to a workshopIntegrating my teaching of writing and yoga has been a goal of mine for a while, since yoga has been of incalculable benefit to my writing practice. Yoga in the broadest sense of that word, including the various paths described below that include not only asana and pranayama (postures and breathing) but also meditation and intellect/self-study. Below is the flyer followed by a long form invite to this workshop, the first of which is happening December 8 from 1-4pm. If you are interested, get in touch, because it is a small studio and space is limited.<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 10.5pt;">Yoga for writers and (over)thinkers</span></b><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 10pt;">: <b><i>strengthening the container, cultivating the witness</i></b></span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 9pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 10pt;">You are invited to participate in a 3-hour workshop that integrates a number of yogic paths in order to give you as a writer or (over)thinker resilience as you move through your writing or any intellectual/creative practice or perhaps simply a thorny life issue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 10pt;">At the beginning of the workshop we will focus on asanas and pranayama (postures and breath) to give you a series of techniques that you can bring with you to integrate into your every day. You do not need to be an experienced yogi for this workshop. These will be simple exercises and movements, that when repeated throughout the day can have a profoundly strengthening effect. This can help your body from seizing up into writer’s ‘slumpasana’ and all the attendant aches and pains that can go along with that. As anyone who writes (or works in an office) for a living knows, this seemingly un-physically challenging position of sitting and typing can create issues in our backs, necks, shoulders, wrists and legs, especially as we get older. There are simple things you can do throughout the day to loosen your body and breath practices to aid in concentration and also undercutting stress response. This section is considered Hatha Yoga, the path most people think of as yoga: the body as a mode of transformation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 10pt;">We will then work with forms of meditation as ways to settle into and receive answers for any knotty questions about your writing or other life issues. This is Raja Yoga. This will also be where we begin to cultivate the witness. The witness is that which watches us think and act. In Kripalu yoga we talk about cultivating a compassionate witness; Swami Kripalu (1913-81), the founder of this lineage said: “Self-observation without judgment is the highest form of spiritual practice.” This self-observation applies to the pranayama and asanas as well, but in meditation we are engaged with this task in a direct way. We will also discuss tools for actively cultivating the witness in order to ‘ride the waves’ of intensity that can emerge in writing and in life, rather than jump off into the many modes of distraction and diversion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 10pt;">Throughout the workshop we will also be walking the less well-known path of Jnana yoga, the intellectual path of self-study. This is when the writing comes in more directly. Throughout the workshop, you will be invited to write and engage your mind in what your body and heart are discovering on the mat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 10pt;">If you have a pre-existing writing practice, I encourage you to bring whatever it is you write on or with (assuming it is not WiFi dependent) and even some of your work. There will be opportunities to investigate any rough patches you may be having either with the content or process of your writing. I will invite you at the beginning of the workshop to set an intention regarding any of these questions, so the questions will be brewing inside you throughout, with a chance to invite new perspectives on these questions throughout the various stages of the workshop. If you do not have a writing practice, these exercises can be applied to any thorny issues in your life or other creative/intellectual endeavors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 10pt;">We may have time to read some of what you write to one another, perhaps in pairs, perhaps to the whole group. One way of strengthening the witness is allowing another to temporarily act as your witness; the experience of conscious listening can be quite transformative, both as the receiver and the listener. This can include reading writing or simply speaking, then hearing from the listener what they received. It is not a critique session but instead a way to simply hear, after you have spoke or read, what another heard from you, and to hear yourself either read or speak aloud, without interruption. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 10pt;">What you will come away with after the workshop are some tools you can use in your everyday life to ground your body and breath, thereby strengthening your ability to write or create in any way, which manifests as enhanced resilience to continue creating and living through rough patches. While this workshop will be focused on yoga for writers, these tools can be used in relation to other forms of creative and intellectual endeavors, including writing as a form of self-study. The practice of cultivating the witness is useful no matter what you do in life, as it offers methods to move through even the most challenging times without checking out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 10pt;">If interested, please reserve a spot, as the studio is small and space is limited. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 10pt;">Sunday, December 8, 1-4pm, Inwood Movement, 5030 Broadway #613. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 10pt;">Fee: $60 advanced payment/$65 at the door (assuming there is space). Contact me at <a href="mailto:andwearebreathing@gmail.com">andwearebreathing@gmail.com</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/2/null"> </a>with any questions. If you want to attend but money is an issue, get in touch. I don’t want to turn away anyone for lack of funds. In relation to this, if you can pay a little more, please do, so I can subsidize a spot for someone who cannot pay the full amount.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-64669500835568117562019-10-02T23:19:00.000-04:002019-10-02T23:26:42.483-04:00Offering gentle, meditative Kripalu yoga classes for Every body beginning on Sunday, woohoo!So, it's official, I am teaching yoga now as a KYT & RYT 200 certified teacher! Started out small in August, and the classes are continuing now that I am back in New York after another great writing retreat in Westray, Scotland. I may teach more but for now it's Sundays at 1pm at <a href="https://www.inwoodmovement.com/kripalu-yoga-with-julia" target="_blank">Inwood Movement</a>, which is a lovely intimate studio.<br />
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The flyer I designed (!) is below. And if you want to know more about Kripalu yoga, scroll down a couple posts to where I describe why I think Kripalu yoga is special and you can read more. And of course you can get in touch with any questions if you are interested. I am happy to bring this type of yoga to other spaces and workshops, so if you have a studio or a space or a group of people who might be interested or want a private session, get in touch.<br />
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This along with my writing workshops is my joy. The photo was taken by my dear friend and excellent photographer Jill Nierman when we were in Stromness in the Orkney Isles together before the writing retreat in Westray in September. She captured how I feel about yoga and writing and the Orkney Isles all in one...as I have said many times, I am rich in friends. Who also happen to be wildly talented. A plus.<br />
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<br />Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-60352750206355507312019-09-09T08:34:00.001-04:002019-09-09T08:34:16.676-04:00on unconditional love and griefIt is a year since my beloved cousin Darcy died. I wrote a letter to her for her sons, at the behest of her husband. He had asked those of us close to Darcy to write memories down while they were fresh and she was still alive. I wrote and sent mine to him a couple days before Darcy died, which was a few days after I had visited them in St. Paul. Because my sadness today puts me at a loss for words, but I want to honor this anniversary, below are excerpts (with some adaptations for public context) from that letter. And below that are a couple photos.<br />
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Dear Darcy,<o:p></o:p></div>
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My first memory of you is Jani telling me about how you and she picked strawberries. She clearly adored you, and I was so envious. You were the granddaughter in Milwaukee, the one of whom she was so proud. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We first met when I flew to Milwaukee for Jani's memorial service. You were (almost?) 12. I was 16. You told me years later Jani had told you all these wonderful things about me and you were intimidated, but there was no need. I was just a scared, freaked out teenager. But we got along as I recall, though to be honest my memory of that time is hazy, other than a very strong felt-sense, that I think most likely emanated from you and your mother, which was of warmth. I was attending a boarding school in New England on scholarship. Warmth was in short supply. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Because of so many reasons, great and small...we were not in touch again until we were much older. We met again at my parents' dining room table in Maine, and I remember feeling: we are related. I remember also feeling: I don't feel related to anyone else. Because I had never had that feeling until meeting you again then. It felt strong. I finally understood the phrase: blood is thicker than water. As an only child with a fairly random-chance childhood, I had never felt this.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Was it the tilt of your eyebrows? Your sense of humor? The mix of deep warmth and deep skepticism? A certain depth of soul that I find rare, maybe not because depth of soul is rare, but perhaps it is not always easy to recognize in those to whom we do not feel kinship. We were both Jani's granddaughters. That was clear.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The time we got to spend in Maine in 2004 was a gift. S was 4 and L was a baby. J had to pick me up at the Portland bus station because I had made the mistake (never to be repeated) of taking a cheap bus line to Boston that literally burst into flames on the highway. All were safe but sat at the side of the road for ages. I barely new J but as will come as no surprise to you or anyone else, he was gracious about this late night guest washed up hours away, and we had a nice chat back to Damariscotta.<o:p></o:p></div>
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You and I had time to talk, but this visit was about your mother, Carol. She was dying of breast cancer then. You were so worried about her and doing everything you could to make her comfortable. Meanwhile, you asked me about my own life and affairs of the heart. Again, the warmth. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And from Carol, too, who was insistent we go on the whale watch come hell or high water. Sound familiar? It should. And that was a lovely day. Carol was happy. I think it was hardest on you, though, because you could see her pain. You are always so aware of your surroundings, and especially the cares and concerns of those who are lucky enough to bask in your love, which I think is infinite. I know you would scoff at that and tell me I'm exaggerating, because that's what you do, and like me, you find every reason on earth to be on your own case, but I wish at least for this moment, you could stop and see yourself how I see you: loving, kind, crazy smart, funny, wise, and yes sometimes sad and angry, because why wouldn't you be? But always present. Always. Present.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Another lovely memory I hold in my heart is the time I visited you all in St. Paul in 2011. I think James picked me up and my first memory of your house is L marching me up the stairs (he was 8) to meet his plastic figurines. One looked like a Dr. Who character, which led to watching Dr. Who (with parental agreement of course). L loving it, S being afraid of the monsters, and asking me about them, walking down in his PJs with James to make sure they weren't real, asking for a hug. I was stunned that an 11 year old could speak so articulately about his feelings, but then again he had you and J as parents, so why should it be a surprise?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Once again, unplanned, I was an emotional wreck because of my second marriage ending (I took on this aspect of the Jani personality apparently). And you wanted to help, and I wasn't having it, and you - in your warm way - basically told me I was being an asshole. Which I was. You were right. I have always been grateful for that conversation. You probably don't remember it that way, but it was done with such kindness, it didn't hurt, because you said it from love.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Other times during that trip included lovely moments like sitting on beanbags (I think they were?) in Walker Art Center watching a slideshow of Nan Goldin's photos of children, so beautiful and So unsentimental. Her aesthetic suited us both right down to the ground. We also went to a yoga class together that I loved instantly, gentle and wise was your yoga teacher. Afterwards, we discussed without going too far the senses we got there. The intimations of things not seen. Larger than us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is where I feel the most connected to you in the end. I know you are agnostic, whereas I believe deeply in something I cannot explain but has saved me one too many times to be easily dismissed. But I think deep down you have had this experience, too. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I remember too and will never forget our brief - all too brief - goodbye conversation on the sofa when you told me about dragonflies, that they are ancient but live such short lives, and in their short lives they are so busy - mating, making more dragonflies… but how you loved it when one would alight on your arm when you were younger. You were somehow wanting to link to this to the fact that it was OK we were saying goodbye. You could not remember what you wanted to say, but I think you said it:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ancient but brief. Something about life. About our connection perhaps? It is how I feel it anyway. S walked in the door soon after that, your brother had driven him from Grinnell. The mood changed, and then I did have to leave, it was so late. I don't remember the actual moment we said goodbye, perhaps because we said it a number of times that night. You told me you didn't think you were dying "right" and I feel like I didn't say goodbye "right" - which for both of us was precisely: typical.<o:p></o:p></div>
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These are snapshots. There is so much to be said. There is nothing more to be said. You are my heart. As are your sons, and I hope they know that. If they ever want deep background, I can give them the book that is half about Jani, who is an influence like no other. I am here for you always, and them, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
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You wrote once you loved me to infinity. And I wrote back I love you to infinity and back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And I do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I love you to infinity and back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Julia xoxoxo……<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1xl-xRvk_Xmt8kr0BAd04N8Hc4Gb9IYjDlJqKjicyl83zhTYpjbVqONIg9Qlb1SwruiAze7OLPt8H27Im2fgrdop64nmPVAVrSgzgHAMx_xIMf6tRi5pdvfLwUOEsU1eABbnhXPX5lo4/s1600/08_Jani_15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1036" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1xl-xRvk_Xmt8kr0BAd04N8Hc4Gb9IYjDlJqKjicyl83zhTYpjbVqONIg9Qlb1SwruiAze7OLPt8H27Im2fgrdop64nmPVAVrSgzgHAMx_xIMf6tRi5pdvfLwUOEsU1eABbnhXPX5lo4/s400/08_Jani_15.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darcy on left with brother Jonathan, sitting on legendary Jani's lap</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darcy and me in Maine in 2004, her young son's head visible</td></tr>
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Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-28560599076931558802019-08-29T07:03:00.000-04:002019-08-29T07:03:31.635-04:00The unbearable sadness of sadnessSo, here I am taking a train to a ferry to my favorite place on earth...the Orkney Isles to lead a writing retreat, so I should be happy, but I am sad because it is the anniversary of the last two days I saw my cousin alive last year.<br />
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While she has been with me in spirit since she died—I have felt her love it is palpable—her loss here on earth I find so unacceptable and cruel.<br />
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I am also jet lagged and so am tired, but am also finding this anniversary time deeply difficult. I hate how many people are taken out by cancer, too young. So I am looking out the window and taking photos from the train, and so happy to be taking this journey, while also feeling it is difficult to breathe because of a sense of grief overcoming me like a giant weight on my chest.<br />
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That plus the world of political insanity both in the US and UK make it hard to feel happy about much.<br />
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I guess I am writing about this here and now on this train because I have the time to allow these feelings, and also as a reminder to anyone dealing with grief that deep sadness about loss knows no linear time line.<br />
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I want to say, too, that seeing Darcy a year ago today and tomorrow was such a profound gift. And that today while I am sad, I am forever grateful for that time, and also grateful that today, unlike a year ago, I do not have a frozen shoulder.<br />
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In general, I have a lot to be grateful for but cannot shake this heavy feeling. I am struck by the fact that for all of my supposedly knowing better, and how I would say this is irrational to anyone else, that when feeling deeply sad, I somehow judge myself for this sadness, as if it is a moral failing. I know this makes no sense, but I always remember at times like this a friend saying to me a long time ago "I am so ashamed of my pain." I did not understand what she meant. She was in her mid-30s, I was 23 or 24. I now know. I also know it is not necessary, but I think pain plus exhaustion = judgment.<br />
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That is OK if I can witness this phenomenon without judgment, and sometimes the way I need to witness is to write it down. I keep feeling like to post this I need to have some kind of happy note, but it's not there, so going to post it anyway. I can say that out the window is lush green, hills and valleys and fields. There is a lot to love about my life now, and I do, but still there is this sadness. Both are true.<br />
<br />Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-7013782892201244752019-07-17T12:01:00.000-04:002019-07-17T12:01:36.412-04:00Moonshots, yoga, and writing retreat on WestrayI woke up to see a post of the broadcast from the Apollo 11 flight to the moon fifty years ago. Watching bits of it made me cry. I remember watching it with my mother back in 1969, tired because I was 6 years old, she was waking me up to see Neil Armstrong step on the moon. They looked so fragile, black and white snowmen ghostly, bouncing lightly on the surface like they might fly away, but there they were on the moon, and the adults were excited. I think to me at that age it seemed like a dream. But I knew it was important.<br />
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This time, seeing the image of the earth from their tiny little return rocket, all of the fragility, all of the beauty flooding into me.<br />
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And I am here in Westray, Scotland (part of Orkney Isles), my spiritual home, writing and writing and writing, about my yoga journey mostly, which was and is rocky, not at all a happy, clappy ride into bliss or whatever. But working with the Yoga Sutras and seeing their depth, so grateful for the transformation I experienced during the yoga teacher training at Kripalu, which feels more real the further away from it I am, because it was not a rosy time. It was a really challenging time, with some amazing moments, but through that rough road I transformed.<br />
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The Yoga Sutras embody an experience I had many years ago, a sudden illumination early in my sobriety, but one that I did not have a strong enough container to launch me into transformation. Instead it was there to save my sorry ass through many years of hurling myself into what Rumi would refer to as "mean-spirited road houses."<br />
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But it did save me, because I did not drink again. I am alive, and now, only now, do I feel I have any of the tools I need to begin to embody the reality that was shown to me so clearly and yet so shockingly in 1987 at a bus-stop in San Francisco of all places. Not the primary location one would choose for a life-altering spiritual experience, but there you go. My life is nothing if not filled with the spiritual smashed up against the quotidian—to be perfectly honest I would not have it any other way.<br />
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So what does the moon landing have to do with any of this? Moonshots I suppose, those moments you shoot ourself out there wondering where it will lead but knowing you literally have nothing left to lose other than either a sense of being stuck or some other prison cell you are finally ready to leave.<br />
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And now, because one of those moonshots for me was starting this writing retreat in Westray, I am reaping the benefits of one such leap of faith. Here now writing with other women who are also writing, for many hours a day, in a house that is silent from 9am to 5pm, a luxury all of us love, the luxury to Not socialize or respond, but instead to be absorbed in one's own thoughts and writing. For women especially, socialized since the gate to respond, listen, receive, mirror, etc., this is a gift. We need to allow ourselves time to sink into our selves and Selves, our voices, our own ideas, listen to the subtle shifts, Not perform, Not make someone else feel better and etc.<br />
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Everyone seems to be having breakthroughs with large projects—the kind you cannot wrap your mind around without large chunks of time and space. My breakthrough is simple: I am writing. After months of grief-induced silence, since November, I can write again. This alone feels like a huge gift. It's a bit creaky, of course, but it's happening and ideas are flowing out of me. Of course it's just a draft and will need lots of rewriting, that's a given, but that is also totally OK.<br />
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I also did the final edits on <i>White shoe lady</i> for Nomadic Press, so that will be coming out as a chapbook in the near future. Not sure of the timeline, but you will of course hear of it. I don't think I wrote a blog post when won the Bindle Prize (their chapbook contest) because it came as such a shock. This was a story I wrote here in Westray last year and was rejected all over the place, though some were 'nice' rejections, from places like Granta, so I had some hope...but also felt despair because I had been submitting it for months. So, if anyone out there is a writer, please use this as inspiration and Keep Submitting your work.<br />
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Also, hot tip: yoga and meditation to start your day helps. A lot. So honored to lead that most days here, and some days on my own out behind the house, Orkney wind energizing me, breathing me alive...and sometimes Qigong as well, gathering the energies, bringing them back inside and writing all day long.<br />
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Today I have been editing an excerpt from the book project I am drafting in hopes can be legible for a reading tomorrow. We shall see.<br />
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And of course the beauty of this place cannot be overstated. Some photos below. All are from or near the house. I could not feel more grateful. This place is a gift. This place is my home. So is New York City. Go figure.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maes Sand, the beach a few minutes walk away</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maes Sand</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbb5MaKVhsxqd7YkDNoovnXdMCprYBPOgUMaTdLi75fG1TY-KXzPrX6vUUiSKqaz9YRVvwqJ-Yy5hTtpcIKPCmx1jX5PWU4GQyADwSNUDzMtPCbzykLTG0sK5RajFLUV66mEVAt78NRL4/s1600/IMG_20190713_210308_542.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbb5MaKVhsxqd7YkDNoovnXdMCprYBPOgUMaTdLi75fG1TY-KXzPrX6vUUiSKqaz9YRVvwqJ-Yy5hTtpcIKPCmx1jX5PWU4GQyADwSNUDzMtPCbzykLTG0sK5RajFLUV66mEVAt78NRL4/s400/IMG_20190713_210308_542.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puffins here and below! A cycle ride away.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The extraordinary water of the North Sea where it meets the Atlantic - crystal clear</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The retreat house, overlooking all of the above</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset close to 11pm</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View outside my window at 3am—in the summer it never gets truly dark</td></tr>
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<br />Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-40181575270888423372019-07-04T11:05:00.000-04:002019-07-04T18:56:53.916-04:00"I'm getting closer to my hoooome..."Just aged myself with that title.<br />
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But as anyone who knows me would know this means...I am on the train headed north to the ferry to Orkney.<br />
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I have two places on earth I consider home. NYC and the Orkney Isles. I love islands. Crowded islands and way less crowded islands. With waterways that meet, specific currents, energy coming from the stone, and something that cannot be pinned down.<br />
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I am now on the final crazy leg of this journey. The great part is the train is usually half empty and the other part is because it's such a wendy way, what is about 2 hours or less by car takes 4 hours by train, but it is a beautiful four hours, so I am good. That plus all the extra space means I am happy.<br />
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Had a wonderful time in Glasgow and Edinburgh before the journey, first seeing art in an exhibition <a href="https://womenslibrary.org.uk/event/home-where-home-is-not-2/" target="_blank">Home Where Home Is Not</a>, that I am honored to have been asked to respond to with a "performative tour" (no I'm not sure what that means either, but happily I get to decide what that means so it should be fun). The exhibit was created in conversation with women who live in NorthEast Glasgow, and the work has been made by Birthe Jorgensen and Sogol Mabadi. It's extraordinary, half of it is at <a href="https://www.platform-online.co.uk/whats-on/event/549/" target="_blank">Plat-form</a> and the other at <a href="https://womenslibrary.org.uk/event/home-where-home-is-not-2/" target="_blank">Glasgow Women's Library</a>. Go see it if you can. My response, which will be in conversation with whomever shows up, will be on July 21 from 2-4pm, beginning at <a href="https://www.platform-online.co.uk/whats-on/event/549/" target="_blank">Plat-form</a>, with a bus that takes everyone to GLW in between. Having had a chance, even if jet lagged, to engage with the work, I cannot tell you how excited I am to contribute even a little something to this exhibition. Come and play with me if you can.<br />
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Next was staying with friend Jules in Edinburgh. We met when she was on my writing retreat last year in Westray (the same one I am going to lead now). She, too, is an incredible artist and writer, so we were able to talk about so many things and ground in the way too people of like minds and experiences can ground. A soul friend. As is Birthe. I am lucky that way. The biggest and most consistent blessings in my life have been my friendships.<br />
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Got to see Edinburgh from Jules' point of view, which was enlightening. I like ground eye view of cities more than tourist eye view or event-specific. The quotidian is where my heart lies, not the grand gestures or the city's frosting. Jules made gorgeous meals, and we took long walks, and one afternoon I just...napped. Which was delightful. Plus she has a cat named Tiger who is the female equivalent of Ugo in terms of size, coloring and temperament.<br />
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Now I am simply traveling, which - once the luggage is stowed, I have a seat and a little space (and a view out of the window) - is my happy place. I am however always taken aback by the nerves the accompany each stage of travel, even when I have done it before and know it will be OK. I was able to use techniques learned at yoga teacher training to accept these emotions, not push them away, and thereby let them move through. Understand there are reasons for that anxiety, some from my past, and that trying to suppress that makes it worse. But there is also a way to accept without just getting stuck there. "BRFWA" as it's called at Kripalu...aka Breathe (as in, you know, breathe), Relax (find a way to just be in whatever place you are without too much resistance, and check if the body is clutching at things real or imaginary), Feel (acknowledge and let yourself feel whatever you are feeling even if it is "irrational" or "disproportionate" - letting go of the judgment long enough to, you know, just feel whatever it is you are feeling), Watch (cultivating witness consciousness, a compassionate eye that watches all the fluctuations of your mind and feelings, which is also you, but not a part we usually acknowledge, and that part also connects to the larger universe, so is kind of a portal in a way to an awareness of connection to all that is, but in this instance is simply a part of you that can watch without judgment), then finally Allow - with witness consciousness in place, there is a container that is strong enough to allow the feelings, to ride the wave of whatever is happening, so you don't have to push it away or cling to it, so you can let it be...just as it is.<br />
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When I have used this technique at each stage of travel, I have come in touch with a rather terrorized little girl who was wrenched in many directions against her will. And in many cases (not all) the changes were not good. Sometimes they were, so it was a crapshoot. This is the level of vulnerability that comes up when I do one of my favorite things: traveling. So, with BRFWA, I get to be in touch with that, have compassion for that little girl but also assure her that things are different now and that I'm here. And we are OK. This may sound kind of cliche or self-help-y, but when felt deeply in my experience, it has been transformative. What creates stasis is when I try to push that fear away, because I was told I had to do that from about 3 years old, so when pushing these uncomfortable (read: embarrassing) feelings away, I am reenacting, however unwittingly, a level of abuse.<br />
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By using the full technique, starting with the breathing, I can allow the little girl the full range of her feelings, thereby liberating years of stuckness, and the effect is I feel lighter and more energetic. Not by trying to be "positive" or whatever, but by allowing in Reality in its full dimension/s.<br />
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So, here I am now on a train, happy as a clam, writing this blog post. I may go through some anxiety later, but right now, feeling happy. And the fact is the feelings change. "This too shall pass" applies as much to happiness as sadness. It's like the Scottish weather. The sun can disappear quickly, but so does the rain, the sky is ever changing, the clouds have so many colors in them, infinite varieties of blues and grays and whites, and they are <i>always</i> moving. In Orkney, with its high winds, which are usually a constant, this phenomenon is on fleek. The land is varied in height, but with very few trees so the view is 360 degrees - you can watch weather systems come in and out, tides and currents shift - and where I will be staying in Westray with the writers on retreat - we look out to where the Atlantic and North Sea meet.<br />
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At Kripalu for 26 days in the Berkshires, I began to really understand the attraction of mountains, which has never been a big thing for me. But looking out at the mountains day after day going back and back to the horizon, all the layers of blues and mists and fog and grey and green, I saw how peaceful that is, too. Any buzzing thoughts fade into insignificance in the face of the mountains' gentle solidity. In the same way these thoughts melt into insignificance in the face of ocean tides.<br />
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It is a gift to go from that to Westray, from one place to another of deep calm.<br />
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I write this while a young mother chases her little kids up and down the aisles of a train, one screaming periodically, and am aware of the privilege built into my life wherein I have the freedom to do the things I do. And I am profoundly grateful for these gifts in my life. I don't have hardly any money, but I do find a way to hurl myself into the world, and so far, like the trapeze artists who have to let go of one bar and hang suspended before caught by another pair of hands or to catch another bar, I have been caught or sent something to hold onto, so many times.<br />
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There have been times when I have felt alone, isolated, and profoundly hard done by, but in the end, even after these fallow periods, something new emerged. This is not an "it's all good" post, because I don't think things I and many other people have had to endure are "good," but this is a gratitude post, because I do feel lucky that I have managed to rally so many times...<br />
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with a little help from my friends...<br />
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(or, as Rumi would say, the Friend.)<br />
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<br />Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-64958306966296992352019-06-26T00:31:00.000-04:002019-06-26T00:31:02.440-04:00What makes Kripalu Yoga special?Why, I'm glad you asked.<br />
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I had a lot of answers to this question before doing yoga teacher training at Kripalu, based on 18 years of practicing in this lineage. I would have told you about sensations of meditation in motion, the gentleness of the practice, how it asks you to tune into your own body, and the mysteriously wonderful feeling after a practice or during savasana when integrating the class.<br />
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But now that I have gone through the teaching training, I have a whole new appreciation of what goes into making a Kripalu yoga class what it is, and a real understanding of why the training is so challenging.<br />
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I could go into a lot of technical things, but that would be of little interest to many, so will focus instead on the crux of the matter: it is all about compassion, for the self and for each other. What this means is: to become a Kripalu yoga teacher, to practice and lead with this level of compassion, and inspire it in your students, you need to find it for yourself.<br />
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So, whatever residual bits or chunks or say, I dunno, reservoirs, of self-hatred you have in you have to be somehow exorcised, because it turns out that the only way to be compassionate to someone else truly is to have it for yourself. The Bible says "love your neighbor as yourself" but if you don't love yourself, how the hell are you going to treat your neighbor? Probably not so well.<br />
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Yeah, so, this is the crux of what was challenging for me, and the reason I am so proud that I made it through the process. Whether it was through self-laceration or self-judgment, or in the middle of the training, practicing poses that injured me so that I had to stay still for a few days, I had to face up to all the ways I hurt myself...and find a way to stop.<br />
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Some people told me this kindly, some in ways I could not or would not hear or somehow seemed to boomerang and make it worse, but the fact remained: they were all right, whether conveyed skillfully or not. I had to get the monkey off my back.<br />
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And there was only one way to do that, also made clear by yoga philosophy: let go of the stories. All the stories. The stories we tell ourselves (I tell myself) about what we/I can or cannot do. The stories others told us when we were growing up or in school about what we could or could not do. The stories literally and figuratively inflicted on us, either through overt or covert abuse. Traumas big and small, complex or straightforward...that all leave traces, scars, engravings on our souls AND on our bodies.<br />
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The biggest story I was told from the gate, verbally and nonverbally was: you are weak, there is something wrong with you physically, you are somehow awkward, your eyes are weird, you are uncoordinated, and etc. Add to this verbal, physical, and sexual abuse and you have someone who is no fan of being in her own body, and if reminded - horrors - in a mirror - will flee, fight or freeze - it is so terrifying.<br />
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So, what brought all this up were the practice teach sessions, when I needed to allow others to observe me. I wrote in an earlier post about one of the worst episodes with this, but the fact is this happened to varying degrees no matter how skillful the mentor or viewer. I had to ask one of the assistants at our lunch "study hall" to write stuff down while I taught someone so I could get used to this without freaking out.<br />
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Now, before this I had directed plays and taught university classes with people watching me. I had defended my PhD in front of others (obviously). I have had my theater work loved and loathed by critics, but it was practice teaching yoga that nearly broke me.<br />
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Why?<br />
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Because I was having to be Embodied in front of others, AND help them to do the same WITH others watching. Given my personal history this felt and - even now typing these words even after a successful final practice teach that gave me great joy and led to certification - still feels terrifying. The only difference is now I have found tools to help me deal with the terror.<br />
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I don't know if attempting to teach another kind of yoga would have made me feel this way or not, but I damn sure know that teaching Kripalu yoga did, because it requires a level of compassion that leads to empowerment of the students, through specific languaging yes but also something more subtle. So that trying to do this meant all the voices and abusers came crashing down to contraindicate that ability.<br />
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The ancient voices did not win (see above in re my final practice teach) but they were and are Loud and Scary. Which means of course, I will sure as shit continue to teach yoga, because whatever happened at Kripalu the 26 days I was there, everyone I see now notices it. People comment on how I look, my posture and my bearing. As one friend said, it's like a whole lot of something fell off your shoulders.<br />
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And I have a feeling that just like with recovery, I'm going to have to give it away to keep it.<br />
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I also want to honor the teachers we had this past month, Jurian Hughes and Rudy Peirce, who have to give of their hearts and souls to share this teaching with us, the coordinator Sachi, and all the assistants, Deb, Kathy, Michael and Kristin...and the other guest teachers...it does take a village to make a Kripalu Yoga teacher.<br />
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Finally, in honor of this, I share with you some yoga selfies I took in my kitchen today - yep, kitchen warrior poses. Virabhadrasana 1 & 3. Because, it's me, and to show you that indeed any Body can do yoga. Taking selfies does not come naturally to me. This took a battle with the aforementioned voices. But here they are. When I teach, I will invite people into this gentle, compassionate practice, whether you think you are a "yoga person" or not. If I can do it, so can you.<br />
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P.S. I turned 56 in June...so, this is 56.Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-72434475199767680962019-06-23T12:28:00.000-04:002019-06-23T12:28:09.322-04:00PTSD and its aftermath - how to hold spaceYep, my time at Yoga Teacher Training was indeed transformative, and I am now a certified Kripalu Yoga Teacher - yay! Throughout the process was laid bare and vulnerable in ways beyond what thought was tolerable. Thanks to a skillful trainer and assistant, and some people outside of the Kripalu program I could reach out to who are part of my recovery community, I was able to walk through some triggering events, and now on the other side, feel confident I can teach the kind of yoga I want to teach: gentle, compassionate and meditative for anyBody, especially those who feel disqualified from yoga because not young, thin or bendy. This is what drew me to Kripalu Yoga in the first place. I realized this month that I also want to reach out to rehabs and detoxes to offer this type of yoga, since it can be very helpful for the difficult physical transitions of the body as it attempts to let go of drugs and alcohol, which is in my wheelhouse.<br />
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However, there were moments when I was not sure I would make it because this training makes you have to come into touch with the core of your being, including the traumatized bits. Not that anyone was traumatizing per se, but if you have been scared out of your body from a very young age, and then not only need to be in it to do yoga but then be in it enough to teach others to do the same While Others Are Watching You Do This...is another thing altogether.<br />
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In <i>savasana</i> (a meditative, restful time lying on floor at end of most yoga classes), I had a felt sense of how challenging this would be for me and began to cry. Afterwards, I went to talk about this to the trainer I had a feeling would get it and they did (NB: I am going to use 'they' as a gender neutral way of discussing people here, because I want this to be about principles rather than personalities, and if you know where I studied and with whom gender designations would give it away). Even though this person did not have a complete understanding, they did have the ability to understand there was something large going on and convey both an ability to hold space for that while also conveying faith in me that I would get through it. This was done <i>not</i> by using fake psychology, but simply reminders to breathe and stay in the present. Conveying both that I was seen and also—importantly—was <i>not</i> a broken toy who needed to be fixed or somehow pitied.<br />
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This is the key to accepting someone else's PTSD response.<br />
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What is a PTSD response, you might ask, and how would I know it?<br />
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Basically it's this: whatever form it takes, it does not track with what you can see in front of you as a person. If that person is generally confident and then is in a puddle of tears, definitely a good possibility they have been triggered. The reason this kind of seemingly atypical response is different than some kind of pathology is because PTSD is a manifestation of what is/was actually a Very Skillful response to what was an impossible situation that kept that person alive. So if someone dissociates or melts down in some obvious way, that is not a sign of a pathological breakdown but instead defense at what appears to be like the original trauma. Yes, it may seem out of line with the situation at hand, and YES, please for the love of all that is holy trust me on this, THE PERSON KNOWS THIS.<br />
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So, examples of less than skillful responses include telling a person who is crying after a disappointing-to-them practice teach in part due to the fact someone they have never met has been watching them while writing stuff down with what appeared like a grimace on their face, that they need to "deal with their negative self-talk."<br />
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Sigh.<br />
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Let's break this down as to all the reasons this is a bad idea.<br />
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1) As above, the person crying knows they are having a disproportionate response. This is not news. This person has been triggered, and if that person is trying to tell you that and all you say is "you have to deal with your negative self-talk" you know that (a) the person is not seeing you and (b) that person has decided that you Are a broken toy and worse—since clearly they do not have a clue what is happening—they can somehow Fix you.<br />
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2) Even if you were right and it was only an issue of "negative self-talk" to keep pointing that out is judgmental and therefore would make this syndrome worse.<br />
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but<br />
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3) If it is a PTSD response, this insistence amounts to blaming the victim and has the effect of not being useful information at all, but instead can have the effect of feeling humiliating.<br />
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SO...<br />
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What would be more useful in that scenario?<br />
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Something like the more skillful trainer did on numerous occasions:<br />
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1. Saw me for where I was and acknowledged it.<br />
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2. Made it clear that my vulnerability was not frightening to them, nor was it somehow off the charts or pathological in any way.<br />
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3. Reminded me of yogic principles (for instance Kripalu yoga has a wonderful system for "riding the wave" of seemingly overwhelming emotions: Breathe, Relax, Feel, Watch, Allow). When reminded of this, and assured by the presence of this person that I was Not a broken toy, I could then use these tools on my own and <i>Find My Own Way Out of the PTSD Response</i>. In other words, this is <i>empowering</i>. It is not either pathologizing or condescending, nor is it fixing, which is problematic because it makes the person feel they are incapable of finding their own way out.<br />
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Is this hard to pull off? You betcha. Have I met lots of people capable of this? No. But is it something that can be cultivated in oneself? Yes, I believe it is.<br />
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The key issue, however, is this: You Must Be OK with Your Own Vulnerability. If you are afraid of parts of yourself that are vulnerable or that perhaps you judge as "weak" or "unseemly", then you will not be able to hold space for someone who is truly melting down in front of you. Because the part of you that is scared of your own vulnerability will recoil and feel the need to label or pathologize or fix the person in front of you.<br />
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***<br />
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So, what I learned in my 26 days of Yoga Teacher Training is that I can survive my own worst meltdowns and fears. That I could find a way, after the first major one with the less than skillful mentor, to protect my own space and energy field (thanks to a friend who offered me a QiGong protection mudra with movement, and also remembering some of my own tools from my 32+ years of recovery). That I can distinguish between what is mine (aka baggage bringing to an interaction) and the less than ideal responses of some people. That when I feel humiliated in many cases this is because I have allowed someone to see a vulnerability in me they are not themselves prepared to cope with so feel the need to shut me down by labeling it or trying to fix me. That <i>even so</i>, that person or people are doing their best and that their vulnerability is manifesting as a fear of mine. So that in no case–and I want to emphasize this—do I think anyone was ever trying to hurt me in any way, and that at all times even these people who inadvertently hurt me did have my best interests at heart. However, there is this deep work one learns to do if having spent a long time in life recovering from trauma/s and various ways of coping with said trauma/s, and if one has not done this work or maybe even if one has not had to do this work, there is a certain lack of understanding brought to the spaces I ended up inhabiting at a few key phases during my training.<br />
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Having said that, there was the skilled trainer and also an assistant who had an instinctive understanding of what was happening and offered useful tools at key times. And the trainer was able to help me process some of the more difficult interactions.<br />
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But the main thing I want to convey here is this: even if you find yourself as someone in a situation with someone having a PTSD episode and you don't understand it: (a) hold space as much as possible, (b) <i>listen</i> to what the person is saying, (c) <i>affirm</i> their strength for being there in that moment, even if in a somewhat disheveled or perhaps dissociated state, and tell them both verbally and non-verbally, that you have confidence they can endure whatever they are going through at the moment and encourage them back to the present moment where—assuming you have done all of the above—it is safe. Also, and this is key, do not assume you know why or what has triggered this or what their background is or is not. If they want you to know, they will tell you. If you talk to them, however seemingly compassionately about their "rough life" when you don't even know what it was, again the person will feel singled out and pitied. If they want you to know the details, you will find out.<br />
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You can Always say: wow, I don't have this experience and am not sure what to do, how to offer help, and ASK the person is there something I can do? And then believe their answer. Finally, if nothing helps, consider reaching out to someone else you know who you think may be better suited to the task. In other words: be humble, don't assume you have to know how to deal with it, but be ready to find out you do not, and admit to where you are. Then you, too, are showing vulnerability, and become safer.<br />
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***<br />
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I hope this is useful information. Finally, if you have a friend or loved one who deals with PTSD on the regular (or you yourself do), I cannot recommend <i>The Body Keeps the Score</i> highly enough. This will give you the information you need to understand what that person is dealing with on a <i>physiological</i> level, even aside from the obvious emotional distress. When I read this book a couple years ago, it marked the first time I did not in my heart of hearts feel broken or beyond repair. I saw what made up the symptoms in my brain and body, and had a compassion for myself and others who similarly suffer. I saw we were not beyond redemption, we were skillful survivors of impossible situations, either in childhood or as adults or both, domestic or in war or both, and that given this knowledge and self-awareness we can find how to navigate the world in a way which is less fractured. Perfect? No. At times triggered? You bet. But with compassion.<br />
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"The highest form of spiritual practice is self-observation without judgment" said Swami Kripalu.<br />
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I agree.<br />
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Peace out.<br />
<br />Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-22439258253289285152019-05-27T19:42:00.000-04:002019-05-27T19:42:08.819-04:00Waiting in limbo for transformation most likelyThis is my: yes I am in the cafe at Kripalu waiting for my room post, but this time before yoga teacher training. So instead of waiting for 3-5 days of being here, I am waiting to find out where I will stay for 26 days, which seems not dissimilar to a rehab stay in terms of time. Never been to rehab, but this seems like a voluntary version of it.<br />
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Because I take the bus from NYC, I get here before they have rooms available. But there is a lovely cafe and I get quite a view while waiting.<br />
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I have never been here before when it is this warm. Even the first time I came here - in 2003 before there was coffee or locks on the doors - it was early May so not this lusciously green and as mentioned no coffee. Or WiFi. In fact at that time I didn't even have a laptop. So here I am now for better or for worse with a computer, WiFi, and coffee in a plastic mug (reusable - don't freak out).<br />
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Met a lovely woman on the bus then spent a lot of time looking at the trees and the lake as we passed by it, and also parts of Connecticut I know personally or from researching my grandmother's life. Seymour, Waterbury, the Housatonic River...It's a sweet, gentle day here. I know it's hot in NYC, though was even lucky enough to leave before that hit.<br />
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I have some idea and then No idea what to expect. It's the exciting, stomach churning feeling. What will this be like? Will the other kids like me?<br />
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I spent my childhood in New England, moving from place to place, school to school, and sometimes camps and summer schools, staying with different relatives in summers and for a couple years, everything shifting, and every change, I remember thinking: maybe this time it will be better! Where I got that optimism from is beyond me, but kids are kind of amazing. Perhaps needless to say it was not always better, though sometimes it was. But the idea was: This time I will get it Right. I will finally figure out the right clothes, attitude or whatever (I never did - you just have to trust me on that one - sometimes I accidentally got it right, but usually a day late and dollar short).<br />
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And so even though I am 55 and should "know better" (drum roll please...) I find there is still some of that. Though also and equally based on prior experience at Kripalu, knowing I can eventually lay all that at the door.<br />
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This is why I am here for yoga teacher training and not somewhere else, because this is the place I come to Lay it All at the Door. Sometimes I do and sometimes I don't, but usually there is at least one moment this happens, and that moment is transformative. It's like a sober acid trip (without the acid, natch). A view into the soul, somewhere new, unguarded, unseen until that moment, and it's such a gift...<br />
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And amazingly that gives me a segue into writing about something I am kind of obsessed with but was not sure how to write about until typing the above paragraph:<br />
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Season 2 of Fleabag. If you have not watched Fleabag, do, and maybe read this after. This is full of spoilers and meant for people who like me have watched it and can't shake it...<br />
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Because season 1 was satire, very good satire, about how whack we get over grieving intense loss. Sounds unpromising but the young British actress/comedienne pulls it off.<br />
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But Season 2 is another thing altogether, because while it is incredibly funny, there are a bunch of set ups that make you think: oh OK I know where we are going, this person is like this and that like that but instead, in each case, even the most unlikely, that person, including our protagonist, finds themselves laid bare, vulnerable in a way as funny as it is heartbreaking and from there a big change happens in their lives.<br />
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I think this may be why we who have watched it were all riveted. I won't go into details in case you are still reading and have not watched it yet, but the larger point remains: grief makes you demented, but when you are grieving, you can also find parts of yourself hitherto unknown, and if it's not grief, maybe it is love or attraction or Something Outside of Your Control.<br />
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And the only way transformation is possible is by allowing yourself to unattach from your little stories about who you are, which are ultimately not only limiting but also to some degree or other delusional.<br />
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As anyone who knows me will understand, I am not saying this from a mountaintop (well OK I sort of am since I am in the Berkshires but not a figurative one) but as someone who has experienced and experiences this, because we are meaning making machines and so we create and dismantle and reconstruct ourselves all the time, minute to minute. And maybe the older we get the challenges to the story are a little harder to come by, or maybe sometimes when you just keep fucking losing people and things and ideas and etc, it gets easier when you get older.<br />
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But I am here now, and I am not the same person who came here in early May 2003. And I doubt I will be the same person who typed this when June 21 rolls around. I mean I will be of course, but have a feeling some things will have shifted, but here's the funny scary great - did I mention scary? - part: I don't know what this.a<br />
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Time to go check to see if my room is available yet.<br />
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***<br />
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And it was/is. Unpacking now, to shower and yoga! Posting now and if typos will fix later...<br />
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***<br />
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OK so it's a day later, and now posting because no WiFi in room. Which means I have kept my laptop until now in a safe. Yay me, and on our first day we were teaching each other a basic pose. So...I'm on the way and by afternoon taking a yoga class I would not have dreamed two days ago I could have survived. Even with shoulder issue, it turns out, once again, I am way stronger than I know - but also in some bits, so out of shape, but here I am. Still alive.<br />
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Favorite little snippet from today, Kripalu yoga teacher training leading us to be "a guide on the side, not a sage on the stage." This remains my favorite kind of yoga by a mile and one of my favorite places on earth to be. It's Day 1, though, so stay tuned...as they assured us, some days we will wonder why we are here. I imagine that is true.<br />
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But for now I live in a jigsaw puzzle photo...check out this view from outdoor dining area. I saw lilacs on the drive in, so hoping to find some of them, too.<br />
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Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-49760472382299570752019-03-16T21:17:00.003-04:002019-03-17T14:17:45.771-04:00An interview about feminism, literature, theater, politics, philosophy and On the edge of/a cureVery happy to link to this <a href="https://www.pressenza.com/2019/03/face-2-face-with-julia-lee-barclay-morton/?fbclid=IwAR2vEoCvl41SRIYv8VEdKDiiCOIIk_hH4D2-9NqwmzkdbtLKQaigMPrPJ1A" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: blue;">on camera interview</span></b></a> I did with the lovely David Andersson of <b><a href="https://www.pressenza.com/2019/03/face-2-face-with-julia-lee-barclay-morton/?fbclid=IwAR2vEoCvl41SRIYv8VEdKDiiCOIIk_hH4D2-9NqwmzkdbtLKQaigMPrPJ1A" target="_blank">Pressenza's Face2Face. </a></b><br />
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The conversation was wide ranging and touches on feminism and theater, literature and politics, philosophy and perception and how that is all embodied in my newest play <a href="https://rogueplayers.com/2019/03/04/on-the-edge-of-a-cure/" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: red;">On the edge of/a cure (from which I read), that will be presented as a staged reading by Rogue Players in May.</span></b></a><br />
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I would love it if you would watch the interview, tell me what you think, and please share it if you like it. I have never done anything like this before, and I have to give a special shout-out to my friends Gina Dorcely and Julie Boak for helping me prepare. Many friends helped as well, but they made sure my look was right, and while that might sound superficial, trust me, when you are being interviewed on camera for the first time, that is as deep as it gets. For someone who has had chronic visibility issues (as in wanting to disappear but also somehow be seen), doing this interview and having it look and sound good is not only helpful (hopefully) for the ideas conveyed and my own work, but also deeply healing.<br />
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I was so impressed with David Andersson, how well he listened and understood the ideas and concepts I was airing. What a rare thing to feel one is having a real conversation about such topics in any environment, but even more surprising when it's on camera. As awful as the behavior is that has been exposed in the #metoo movement, I keep finding male allies who are sincere and caring. My theory is that the bad guys are not the majority but they have gaslit women and most men into believing they are, thereby masking their bad behavior as "normal." It's not normal. It's ridiculous. So, kudos to David who can listen, ask great questions and care enough to engage with the answers women give.<br />
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I have been neglectful of this blog because of so many things happening at once, which followed an extended period of grief, that still pops up once in a while. So, this kind of happy event is a welcome relief and respite. Something else I have been doing that has helped a lot is studying Qigong alongside my yoga practice. My energy levels have increased dramatically as has a kind of innate resiliency. Indeed after a couple weeks, I realized I was not depressed, but depression had become so normal to me, I didn't even realize there was another reality. Happily, I am no longer depressed after years of being so. Who knew?<br />
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In other good news, the fabulous women of the IWW workshops (there are now two!) invite you <b>this Wednesday for a Full Moon Equinox Reading</b> at <a href="https://tannatnyc.com/" target="_blank">Tannat Wine & Cheese</a> up in Inwood, the top tip of Manhattan. Invite below. If you are in NYC, come along. These women are rocking my world.<br />
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There may be a space or two opening up in the workshops, so get in touch if you are interested (email on flyer below).<br />
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<br />Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-25535820925709573482019-02-17T22:08:00.000-05:002019-02-17T22:08:00.839-05:00Review of RANDOM ACTS by Renata Hinrichs<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Haven't blogged in a while, but RANDOM ACTS made me do it. Happy to tell you about something you should see!<br />
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***</div>
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While waiting to watch the newest iteration of RANDOM ACTS, Renata Hinrichs' moving, funny and more relevant by the minute one-woman show, I was struck by Renata's program note in which she credited the inspiration for this show being her experience living downtown during 9/11 when "memories from my childhood started to surface. The sirens and searchlight that erupted near St. Vincent's Hospital were reminiscent of the chaos, confusion, and terror I experienced as a child in the midst of the struggle for Civil Rights in the South Side of Chicago in the 1960s…" These memories, along with subsequent interviews with her parents to fill in the blanks of her memory as a young child, form the basis of her show.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As someone who also lived through 9/11 in NYC and had my own work transformed by that experience, I recognize the impact of traumatic experience on opening up new/old zones of the self. I mention this now because I think this part of the show, which is never mentioned within the production itself, may have some relationship to its emotional resonance now. In a talkback Renata spoke about her desire for this show to be authentic. This aligns with an unnamed movement I have watched develop in which many of us who directly experienced 9/11 have spent a lot of time since then working to create performances that embody complex levels of reality, while grounded in experience.</div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I don't want to give away the show, because there are many twists and turns in Renata's expert story telling that are best left to discover while watching. However, her instinct to tell this story from herself-as-a-child's point of view is a good one. We are accustomed to seeing the events of the Civil Rights era from the adult point of view with conscious actors, people with honed sensibilities who have decided what side they are on and for whom or what they are fighting. While these stories are moving and necessary, to witness these events from the point of view of a five and six year old girl, who herself is living in between so many worlds, gives a new and valuable window into these events.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
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Renata was the child of a young and idealistic Lutheran pastor of a primarily white church on Ashland Avenue—a long boulevard that divided the white and African-American sections of the Southside. Her father tried to integrate the church much to the dismay of some of his own congregation and other neighbors, especially during the riots that ensued in response to Martin Luther King's assassination. Racist white men responded to her father's tolerance by hurling rocks in their window. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Renata attended a primarily black kindergarten, walking on her own to school (as someone raised during the same period of time, I can assure you, this level of: oh, kids can take care of themselves, was normal, though was interesting to hear the audible gasps in the audience when Renata recounted her mother's conversation with her father about this—times have changed!). She encountered hostility on the street for being white, that as a little girl she did not understand, but the person who looked out for her was a young African-American man whose face she never saw. Her father told her that was her guardian angel, which as a five year old she took to heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her questions about the violence against African-Americans intensified in the crack down after the riots—especially the killing of a young man like the one who had helped her—are heartbreaking, and become a kind of Black Lives Matter rallying cry, though not as a political movement, but instead from a little girl's ingenuous questions about unfairness. In the show, Renata embodies childhood without sentimentality, but also without losing the reality of the fantasy life of a little girl who wants to dance (and indeed becomes a dancer as an adult) and who believes she has a fairy godmother (and a guardian angel). Suffice to say at the end of seeing this show for the second time, I was sobbing (as I did the first time). This is not a normal response for me, and I attribute it to Renata's clear gifts and the impact of her—yes authentic—story.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Renata as an actor has an uncanny ability to transform into all the people who she is telling us about, including her own older, teen, and young child self. She does this with simplicity and humor, aided by the expert staging of director Jessi Hill, who also helped Renata expand this piece into a full-length evening that feels embodied and immersive, thanks in no small part to Matt Otto's excellent sound design. I also appreciated the simplicity and effectiveness of Daisy Long's lighting design, that added depth and definition to a small stage, which worked in sync with Chika Shimizu's adaptable set that shifted with the mood and place of the moment. If you can, you should this show.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0px;">RANDOM ACTS is running at the <a href="https://web.ovationtix.com/trs/cal/34684" target="_blank">Barrow Group through March 2, 2019, Tuesday-Sunday</a>.</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard; text-indent: 0px;"></span></div>
Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-30007845245522141082018-11-18T15:33:00.002-05:002018-11-18T15:36:07.877-05:00Call the Midwife, memorial, grief, old photos, and the unadaptedI have not blogged since my cousin died, except to say she had died. Her memorial was on November 11, and I was in St. Paul until November 14. Much has occurred in these past two months, but I was in a limbo that accords with the silence, though I was working, too, on various writing projects - editing a book and starting up a new one, sending out shorter pieces and such, also teaching my writing workshop.<br />
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But mostly in a haze of grief. The memorial was wonderful, and helped to say goodbye, and in some sense feel released because of it, that and going through all her photos, helping to sort through them, and finding in the midst - photos of me and my family as well as hers. Felt like some kind of deep ritual going through all those photos.<br />
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Also in the midst of this was texting for the midterms, something I did for myself and also in honor of Darcy who was political, engaged and would have cared deeply about the outcome of the elections, and been thrilled to see the gains, especially in her childhood home of Milwaukee.<br />
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I have also discovered the show <i>Call the Midwife</i>, which of course started a number of years ago, but I did not watch it until now, but can thanks to Netflix. This show is a quietly subversive piece of genius, and also gives an insight into the world in which I was born. Has not yet reached 1963 but am close in Season 5, and while also not born on East End of London, instead in Providence, RI, the world and the pressures, especially on women, were very similar. And affected my mother and therefore me a great deal. If you want a good view into what it looks like when abortion is illegal and single women can't keep their children, this is a good way to see the human cost, even with way more social support than women had here in the US in the same time period.<br />
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Something else brought up in the show is the use of thalidomide, which made me think about how I think about being born when I was, what makes people born in a fairly narrow fulcrum time (neither Boomers nor X-ers) unique, and I realized in part we are also the thalidomide generation - the babies born on the cusp of what was considered the victory of modern medicine, that turned out to be not as all-encompassing as thought, and in fact began the realization that what could be considered a wonder drug can then turn out to cause great harm, in this case to the babies born of mothers who took the drug under instructions from their doctor. While this ended before I was born, because the effects became known by 1961, this feels like part of the world in which we arrived. One that began to question itself again after the post war "boom" of supposed optimism, etc.<br />
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In any case these are the things I am thinking about and seeing lots of photos from the 1960s and 70s increases this awareness of how different the world was that I was born into and grew up in, which is of course what everyone says as they get older, but the shifts are jarring nonetheless.<br />
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As is incredibly obvious right now, our lives - those born in the early 1960s - have not been a victory march. Yes, there are have been jolts here and there of progress, sometimes great leaps, but right now here we are in a precarious place, with hopefully a tide turning but we still have to see if that is real. Which again feels very familiar.<br />
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I am thinking about all this because of having been to Darcy's memorial and seeing all these photos, including of her father and mother, and my grandmother, Jani, and the history of political activism and social engagement in my family all the way back as far as the eye can see. So when I speak of these things it's not "just politics" but also engages with the deepest strains in my family. Not all of it pure of course, and some of it downright awful, but this engagement and desire always to create a better, more just world the beating heart of the family legacy...with an equal and opposite shadow side, which is pretty much par for any course I've seen so far in my 55 years on this earth, such as it is, such as I have had the privilege to see. Not everything—some have seen and done far more than me—but I have seen and done quite a bit, and so far: no utopias in sight.<br />
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No pure dystopias either, I should add. Every place having its own weird mix of shadows and light, and underneath it all the contingencies of individual lives always falling off the charts, never going according to plan, messing up the works and all the perfect theories, stratagems and predictions.<br />
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This is what I cling to most in fact, this understanding, that beneath whatever obvious surface there is a lot more going on—in social bodies, individual bodies, cultural bodies, national bodies, ecological bodies....things happening that are not visible, perhaps not even to the person or people involved, the key to unlock the prison gate, always being created at the same time as the prison is being built.<br />
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So, where are we now? Damned if I know.<br />
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But I am here now, writing this, glad of that, sad beyond measure I cannot talk of these things with my beloved cousin Darcy, closest to a sister I will ever have, but so grateful I was able to have seen her before she died and be there for her memorial, to know that I showed up for all of it, and not only that, I wanted to show up for all of it. This was not some virtue thing, but a deep desire to honor her. I have to believe this impulse is what the best of human is about. When we can grieve our beloveds, and tell them how much they are beloved before they pass from our grasp.<br />
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I have so many other things I am thinking about these days, but this feels like what is important to say now.<br />
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Tides are..tidal, so anything I say is inherently impermanent, contingent, just for now. I'd love to come up with something timeless, but not sure that is a real thing.<br />
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As William James so brilliantly pointed out in The Varieties of Religious Experience:<br />
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"...There are in reality infinitely more things "unadapted" to each other in this world than there are things "adapted"; infinitely more things with irregular relations than with regular relations between them. But we look for the regular kind of thing exclusively, and ingeniously discover and preserve it in our memory. It accumulates with other regular kinds, until the collection of them fills our encyclopaedias. Yet all the while between and around them lies an infinite anonymous chaos of objects that no one ever thought of together, of relations that never yet attracted our attention."<br />
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Guess what I'm interested in?<br />
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Yes, of course. You already know. The unadapted. Those relations which have "never yet attracted our attention."<br />
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I think maybe if I had to guess, this is why I've been plunked here on this planet. To learn to pay close attention, and attempt to play, write, draw, paint, create what I notice...and help others to do the same.Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-91247060481843701912018-09-10T01:08:00.001-04:002018-09-10T01:08:24.823-04:00my beloved cousin has diedMy beloved cousin Darcy died today. I am devastated, but was able to see her last week. At some point when I have the strength I will write about all this visit, because it was precious time that I would not trade anything in the world for having had. This is not that time.<br />
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She died on a new moon and on Rosh Hashanah. I am not Jewish and neither is she but the New Year is a profound time in the Jewish tradition, and a good friend walked me through that, and how her dying on this day is meaningful.<br />
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I am too tired and sad to unpack all this now but I am glad I spoke with my friend. John had to go up to Canada tonight, so I am by myself for a week. In some ways this is hard, but in some ways maybe gives me space to grieve.<br />
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All I know about grief from my decade of people dying is: there is no one way this shit works.<br />
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My cousin was the closest to a sibling I had in the world and with her goes the only witness to deeper veins of my experience, including sharing Jani as our grandmother. I note she also died on 'grandparents day.' Darcy saw Jane when she was dying of cancer and now she too has died of cancer.<br />
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She leaves behind two lovely teenage boys and a wonderful, loving husband. She herself was one of the best people in the world. I can't believe she died at 51. This loss for so many of us is unspeakable.<br />
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I do hope she is now renewed, as Rosh Hashanah is about renewal and new beginnings. She and I spoke of intimations of things not seen. I do not know, but I do know she was the only person in my generation I felt related to, and now the world is lonelier. But also she was suffering and now she is released. I prayed the past two days at night to let her go. The little girl inside of me sobbed and said 'no' and I cried a lot. I did not want to let her go, but knew I had to.<br />
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My Jewish friend said she felt Darcy would be with me. I know Jani was. There is this deep current, that is impossible to explain. Maybe those people who worship ancestors know a thing or two about a thing or two. There is something.<br />
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I don't know anything. But I do know Darcy was love and I loved her unconditionally. I will miss her forever and hold her in my heart forever. To infinity and back.Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-83698634436742572562018-09-08T15:12:00.000-04:002018-09-08T15:12:03.327-04:00MemoriamMy cousin is dying in St. Paul. I was lucky enough to see her last week and spend some beautiful and precious hours with her as she began her in-home hospice. She will most likely not live for more than a few more days now, and my heart is breaking as are many who love her. When I returned to NYC, for some reason I decided to send in a piece I had written a number of years ago about being with my estranged father when he died in 2010. The journal editor got back to me the next day and said she wanted to publish it. These two people and experiences could not be farther apart but since this whole decade has been about close relatives dying, it resonates nonetheless...<br />
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So I here is the link to <a href="https://burninghousepress.com/2018/09/08/memoriam-by-julia-lee-barclay-morton/#more-10167" target="_blank">Memoriam in Burning House Press.</a><br />
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That is all for now.Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-26058089285578153172018-08-22T00:50:00.000-04:002018-08-22T00:50:28.662-04:00or not...Alas. have to heal my super frozen shoulder that includes calcification - anywhere from 3-7 months to heal.<br />
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So...no yoga teacher training after all. Which is heartbreaking. I can of course do it again sometime. I hope. Depends on many things, including resources and time.<br />
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But there is a profound lesson here about letting go of plans and slowing the fuck down. Which I have not done in a really, really long time. So, there can be a healing journey - just not the poetic October in Kripalu one. Instead something less big but perhaps more durable? We shall see.<br />
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There is also anticipatory grief right now for someone who is dying, and one fear I had was that the teacher training would be too much with that happening as well. So, there will be space.<br />
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I can't type much without possibly aggravating everything so am going to keep this brief.<br />
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But here's to the kind of healing that is perhaps less visible but perhaps no less profound for that.Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-83312085156082101422018-08-14T00:45:00.001-04:002018-08-14T00:47:32.214-04:00Another healing journey...A lot has happened since my last blog post, all the events listed were performed, and had a wonderful retreat to Westray in Orkney Islands. In fact, so good, that I have booked three more - for April, July and September. So, if you want to spend some time in a beautiful place, getting a lot of writing done, surrounded by serious writers who are super supportive, then get in touch.<br />
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But what I want to write about now is my near-future plan for October of this year...which involves spending the month at Kripalu - a yoga center in the Berkshires that I love - for intensive yoga teacher training. I will be there for a month.<br />
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Aside from the fact that the training itself will be transformational, and I will be certified to teach after over 17 years of practicing Kripalu yoga, this is also happening precisely 17 years after I was meant to spend a month at Kripalu doing a seva program. I had just begun practicing yoga and wanted to immerse myself in it. I was excited and nervous about the prospect of spending a month someplace I had never been, but I had been assured it was a great place. I was ready for an adventure after what had been a challenging year getting over a difficult breakup of a 13 year relationship, which had the effect of making me question Everything. I was ready for this new life, this new world.<br />
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Then less than a month before I was meant to go up to Lenox, September 11, 2001 happened, in my city. I have written about this many times, and if you want my best description, you can read it <a href="http://www.phschool.com/social_studies/special_report/lit_lessons_barclay.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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But what happened after is, I could not leave the city. I was afraid it would disappear. Many were fleeing, but I was holding on for dear life. NYC was my home, the only place on earth that I had ever felt at home, and now all I could smell was burning plastic, metal and bodies - even up in Yorkville where I lived at the time. The smell made it up the East River. The smoke was visible, even though I was miles north of the attack. I had many friends who had been closer, some who lost people, and all of us saw the missing signs everywhere. People had tacked up photocopies of smiling pictures of friends and relatives, every fire house had at least eight photos up it seemed. There were candles under some of the photos in little planters, near trees, on steps up to brownstones. None of them were missing. They were all dead, incinerated.<br />
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I could not move. Would not move. Was not afraid, as far as I could tell, but of course I was. In yoga class, I felt the terror, but mostly was in a dissociated fugue state, that I arguably lived in for years, and to some degree even exist in to this day.<br />
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I cancelled the trip to Kripalu. I ended up doing a lot of other things, including moving to the UK in 2003 for what I thought was temporary stay that ended up lasting 8 years. I left in August 2003, right after the blackout, which ended the morning I flew out, I remember seeing a guy - probably drunk - stagger in front of our Super Shuttle Van at 4 am in Times Square. The driver swerved to avoid him, but it was eerie. My cats had looked at me bereft when I walked out the door. Everything was deeply weird.<br />
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I won't go into those eight years, because that's a novel in its own right, but the fact is I missed all the 9/11 anniversaries after the first one in 2002. And because of the way it was being used politically, I refused to participate even then in any event that showed my grief publicly. I was enraged that our grief was being used as an excuse to ramp up a war. So, I shoved it down. Then I was in the UK where no one wanted to know and most were cynical about 9/11. Individually some people wanted to know my actual human scale story but most decided to launch into diatribes about how it was an inside job and/or how Americans now know how it feels, etc. So, I learned to shut the fuck about it.<br />
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Then I shut it down into a tiny, hidden part of myself. Hidden even to me.<br />
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This part would emerge when I visited NYC and sometimes was near downtown and would see building going on and feel nauseous or start shaking, and I would have to leave.<br />
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I shut. it. down.<br />
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So, when I was back here in September 2011, realizing I was going to move back to NYC, and the 10th anniversary rolled around, I was kind of shocked by how moving it was to me, how emotional I got. I was wary now of saying this to my New York friends, because they had now been through Years of this grieving or ignoring it, depending on their mood or capability. So, once again, I kept it to myself.<br />
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I have begun to realize over the years of being back in NYC that some part of me is still damaged from that day, some part of me I have not allowed out somehow, a wound I have protected.<br />
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One of the original ways of shielding that wound was to Not go to Kripalu in October 2001.<br />
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So, when I realized I could go up in October 2018 for teacher training if I received a scholarship (which happily I did), I decided it was time to finally do this thing. While this won't heal everything, it's a start. I will finally allow myself the immersion I so craved then, but then somehow feared.<br />
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I don't know if the buried emotions will come up or not. There has been a lot of trauma in my life since then, including difficult losses, and there is one right now on the horizon. I have no idea what will happen.<br />
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But I am dedicating the training and any yoga teaching I do to people who were like me when I started yoga in my late 30s: scared and kind of suspicious and sure I could not do it. I want to work with people who suffer from PTSD or just plain old bad body image or a sense of being "bad" at physical things. And maybe people like me, too, who just can't shake certain wounds.<br />
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I want to embrace vulnerability, my own and others'. I don't know if I can actually do this or am just talking trash. In reality I hate vulnerability. My own that is. Total loss of control. It sucks. But it's also the only place life can become, well, life. So there's that.<br />
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We shall see what happens.<br />
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But this is a baby step towards healing. I was torn asunder on 9/11/01. More than I knew. I don't think I will necessarily get put back together, because not sure that's possible, but maybe, if I'm lucky, I can at least find the bits and pieces that were lost, even if they are in shards and make into some kind of whack collage.<br />
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There are worse fates.Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-17688084467945359202018-05-29T15:39:00.003-04:002018-05-29T15:39:56.413-04:00If you know where you're going, it isn't anywhere new...<br />
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<tr><td class="mcnTextContent" style="color: #606060; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 22.5px; padding: 0px 18px 9px;" valign="top"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">The above photo was taken in a bathroom stall in the Tate Modern in London in 2011 by my friend Alison Blunt. I have kept it on my computer for years. All the publications, readings (of plays and prose) and coaching offers (for those of you who want to brave your own souls and would like some company along the way) are not for the faint of heart. You wouldn't be on my mailing list if you were faint of heart. So, let us agree...<br /><br /><span style="color: lightsalmon;"><em><strong>Faint heart never won yet.</strong></em> </span><br /><br />Nothing worth doing is easy, but when in the midst of one's creative process there is great joy. I experience that joy, too, when seeing, hearing, experiencing work created from the </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">depth of another's soul, heart, and gifts. Below are offerings, of work by me and others - and invitations for you to do the same - not by offering you a generic formula but guiding you to hold space for your own voice to emerge, which will not look or sound like anyone else's. Because it's <em>yours</em>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 14px;"><em><span style="color: red;">If you know where you are going, it isn't anywhere new. </span></em><br /><br />We are being told and sold ways to conform and consume, not how to create or live outside a commercial sphere. I think it's pretty obvious this hasn't brought us anywhere particularly good. So, let's get lost. The weather's fine...</span></span><br />
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<strong><span style="color: purple;"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">SOME PLACES TO BEGIN... </span></span></strong></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="mcnTextContent" style="color: #606060; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 22.5px; padding: 0px 9px;" valign="top" width="564"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: firebrick;"><strong>Sunday, June 3 at 5pm</strong></span> is a <a href="http://www.iatitheater.org/programs/detail/shit/" style="color: #6dc6dd; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">staged reading of SHIT</a>, which was chosen for <a href="http://www.iatitheater.org/programs/detail/shit/" style="color: #6dc6dd; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">IATI's 2018 Cimientos play development series</a>. SHIT is a meditation and a rage-cry about powerlessness and violence, both public and private. <a href="http://www.iatitheater.org/programs/detail/shit/" style="color: #6dc6dd; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">IATI is at 64 East 4th Street, right next to LaMama</a>. Directed by <strong>Nina Fry</strong>, with amazing cast: <strong>John Amir, Mia Y. Anderson, Roy Koshy, Alyssa Simon and Eva van Dok</strong>. Don't miss this. It's gonna be special.</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="mcnTextContent" style="color: #606060; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 22.5px; padding: 0px 9px;" valign="top" width="564"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: firebrick;"><strong>Tuesday, June 5 at 8pm</strong></span> the fabulous women of my <strong><a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/609556652728984/" style="color: #6dc6dd; font-weight: normal; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">Inwood Writers' Workshop (IWW) will be reading</a></strong> at the delicious <a href="https://tannatnyc.com/" style="color: #6dc6dd; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank"><strong>Tannat Wine & Cheese</strong> (natural wine and rustic cuisine)</a>. On 4736 Broadway across from Fort Tryon Park near Thayer Street (A or 1 to Dyckman)...hope you can join us to hear some kick-ass women read brand new stuff while munching on some goodies and having a glass of wine if you like.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="mcnTextContent" style="color: #606060; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 22.5px; padding: 0px 9px;" valign="top" width="564"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><strong>Sunday, June 17 at 7pm </strong>is a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/312194925982721/" style="color: #6dc6dd; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">reading of my newest play</a><a href="https://www.eventbrite.com/e/on-the-edge-ofa-cure-a-new-play-reading-tickets-45959321568?aff=efbeventtix" style="color: #6dc6dd; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank"> </a>inspired by #metoo <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/312194925982721/" style="color: #6dc6dd; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank"><strong><em>On the edge of/a cure</em></strong> </a>at <a href="http://www.inwoodartworks.nyc/event/new-play-reading-edge-cure/" style="color: #6dc6dd; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">Inwood Art Work's Culture Hub</a>, 440 W. 202 Street. Amazing month of work curated here by Aaron Simms, proud to be a part of it. If in area, visit any time in June!</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="mcnTextContent" style="color: #606060; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 22.5px; padding: 0px 9px;" valign="top" width="564"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">In May, two of my stage texts, </span></span><a href="https://www.tldrmagazine.com/single-post/2018/05/09/CUT-UP-Julia-Lee-Barclay" style="color: black; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank"><em><strong>CUT UP</strong></em> (1997)</a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> and </span></span><span style="font-size: 14px;"><a href="https://www.tldrmagazine.com/single-post/2018/05/09/Future-Worlds-%E2%80%93-Tricorn-Init-Julia-Lee-Barclay" style="color: #6dc6dd; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank"><strong><em>Future Worlds: Tricorn Init!</em></strong> (2004)</a></span><span style="font-size: 14px;"><a href="https://www.tldrmagazine.com/single-post/2018/05/09/Future-Worlds-%E2%80%93-Tricorn-Init-Julia-Lee-Barclay" style="color: #6dc6dd; word-wrap: break-word;"> </a></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">were published on a fabulous online journal </span></span></span><strong><span style="font-size: 14px;"><a href="https://www.tldrmagazine.com/single-post/2018/05/09/Future-Worlds-%E2%80%93-Tricorn-Init-Julia-Lee-Barclay" style="color: black; font-family: "playfair display", georgia, "times new roman", serif; font-weight: normal; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">TL;DR</a></span></strong><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> as poetry. I am happy they are finding new audiences in the </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">virtual</span><span style="font-size: 14px;"> world, and that the new editor, Bri Esposito, was so enthusiastic about these texts, especially since she is younger than me. Gives me hope!</span></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Meanwhile...after a successful year of leading workshops (three 10-week sessions) and having readings such as the one on June 5, <strong><span style="color: brown;">INWOOD WRITING WORKSHOP will restart in September 2018</span><span style="color: violet;">.</span> </strong></span>B<span style="font-size: 14px;">ecause I believe in highly personalized workshops, I am keeping the groups small. Because I believe in accessibility, the tuition is affordable. </span><span style="color: brown;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><strong>If you are interested, email me</strong></span></span><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: purple;">,</span> and I will send you the details. I may also teach a weekend intensive in August for summer "start-me-up camp"...speaking of which I have some new... </span></span><br />
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<u><span style="font-size: 18px;"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: purple;"><strong>Coaching and Editing Packages</strong></span></span></span></u><br />
<span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">(best deals for my bespoke services - though custom packages available)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong><span style="color: purple;">COME HELL OR HIGH WATER</span></strong></span></span><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">...If you need a push to get your manuscript finished - you know the one - you've started it and filed it away or you have it in the back of your mind, and it's that thing you are going to write </span></span><em style="font-family: "playfair display", georgia, "times new roman", serif;">some day</em><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">. Well, that day is NOW. As Doris Lessing said, </span><span style="color: goldenrod; font-size: 14px;"><strong><em>"Whatever you are meant to do, do it now. The conditions are always impossible."</em></strong></span><span style="font-size: 14px;"> </span><strong style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: goldenrod;">Doris Lessing</span></strong><span style="font-size: 14px;"> left school at the age of 14 to go work as a legal secretary and then went on to win the Nobel Prize, so I think we can trust her... And sometimes the way to make yourself complete that manuscript is have someone hold you accountable. In this package, we agree on a time by which your draft manuscript will be <span style="color: goldenrod;"><em>complete</em></span>. It can be anywhere from 3 months to a year from when we begin working together. <strong>For <span style="color: purple;">$2,000</span> I will work with you to completion and do a manuscript review at the end.</strong> Depending on length of time, we will decide on times to do live coaching (in person or Skype or phone) and when to email. You will promise to finish your manuscript. I will be on you to do that. No excuses. GET. IT. DONE. <strong><em>Come hell or high water.</em></strong></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: purple;"><strong><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">STAND BY ME... </span></strong></span></span><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">You already are knee-deep into a manuscript and you really want someone to look at what you have and give you guidance in how to shape this crazy thing. You might even have a complete draft. You have a vision, but you want company and an outside eye for your revisions. </span><strong><span style="font-size: 14px;">You don't need a coach as much as you need an editor, but sometimes a little coaching could be nice. For </span><span style="color: purple; font-size: 14px;">$1,500 </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">I'll help you get from A to B to refine your project. </span></strong><span style="font-size: 14px;">We will define what "B" is for you before we start and come up with a plan to get there. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: purple;"><strong><span style="font-size: 16px;">START ME UP</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">... </span></strong></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">OK, so that all sounds scary but you really want to get that writing project started, the one that haunts you, that vision you know is inside you but you just aren't sure where or how to start to let it out. </span><strong><span style="font-size: 14px;">You want someone to give you permission to start finding your own voice and read some of your words to give you feedback. For </span><span style="color: purple; font-size: 14px;">$500,</span><span style="font-size: 14px;"> I can offer this</span></strong><span style="font-size: 14px;"> <strong>coaching</strong>. We agree on the time-frame and get you started with a project, make sure your writing habits are grooved in, and you have an action plan to finish. (You can then graduate to <span style="color: purple;">Come Hell or High Water</span> or <span style="color: purple;">Stand By Me</span> if you want...but this is a way to step gradually into the pool...)</span></span><br />
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<strong><span style="color: goldenrod;"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><em>Sure that sounds great, Julia, but why should I trust you? </em><br /><br />Glad you asked! Here is a small sample of lovely words from writers I've taught, coached, and edited:</span></span></span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"You know that book project you've seen me typing about recently? <strong><span style="color: teal;">I'd been stuck on it for five-plus years until I realized Julia Lee Barclay-Morton could help me</span> </strong>— and I expect to have a proposal to my agent by later winter or early spring. <strong><span style="color: maroon;">Working with her in November changed everything. My book went from something I just wanted to finish and get off my plate to something I can imagine being proud of, something I actually want to write and bring into the world.</span></strong> Writing a book *seems* like a thing you do alone. And maybe that works for some folks. For me, having Julia in my corner is my secret weapon, and I never want to have to power through without her again. If your writing project needs a secret weapon, too, I'm willing to share." - <strong>Orna Izakson</strong></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">"I hired Julia Barclay-Morton as a manuscript reviewer for my long, sprawling novel. It was a complicated story with many characters. <strong><span style="color: teal;">In addition to answering the many questions that I posed about continuity and character development, she gave me a thorough rundown of problems in tone, language usage, and plot. Not only that, Julia showed me what was right about the novel and how to bring out the best aspects</span><span style="color: darkslategrey;">. </span></strong>She was a pleasure to work with. Being an editor/writer/teacher herself, Julia has a keen eye and excellent ear. <strong><span style="color: maroon;">I cannot recommend her services enough." </span></strong>- <strong>Elisa DeCarlo</strong></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">"I had been struggling with my project for over a year and made more progress in the ten weeks than in all the preceding months. I started with a story to tell but without the skills to make it real. </span></span><span style="color: teal;"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14px;"><strong>I finished with a sense of direction and having for the first time experienced satisfaction with what I had written</strong>.</span></span><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: darkslategrey;"> </span>I will be back for the next session and look forward to the continued support of a group that provides loving and constructive feedback." - <strong>Rosette Evans</strong></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: teal;"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14px;"><strong>"Julia Lee Barclay-Morton is a gifted editor, writer, reviewer.</strong></span></span><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> I hired her for her manuscript review services and am so pleased with her work,</span></span><strong style="font-family: "playfair display", georgia, "times new roman", serif;"> <span style="color: maroon;">relentless in exposing the problems--and pointing toward solutions--in a problem-laden and complex manuscript.</span></strong><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: maroon;"> </span><strong><span style="color: maroon;">I highly recommend her.</span> </strong>Your project would be in good hands and you would learn much to apply in future new work." - <strong>Vicky Gundrun</strong></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">"Julia is a masterful writer and teacher. </span></span><span style="color: darkslategrey;"><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14px;"><strong>Her workshop was the perfect environment to finish my book."</strong></span></span><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> - <strong>Heather Greer</strong></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: purple;"><strong><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">AND FINALLY....</span></strong></span><br /><br /><strong><span style="color: firebrick; font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><u>The Orkney Islands (Scotland) writing retreat (July 7-22) is full but I will be leading more in 2019!</u> </span></strong></span><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> if you want to come to this magic place in 2019, get in touch. You can also put yourself on an informal waitlist for this year. If you want to give your writer self a gift, it doesn't get much better than this. Compared to most writing retreats, this is far less expensive, and I guarantee you with the wind, the clouds, the endless summer evenings wherein the sun doesn't set until 11:30pm, and the soft green hills where the Atlantic meeting the North Sea meet on which you can watch the shadows of the clouds glide across, you will be inspired to finish or begin projects you thought impossible. In this house in 2009, I wrote a PhD dissertation in four weeks, and last summer, I finished the rewrite of a novel in three weeks. This place is magic. If you want to secure a spot for 2019, get in touch. I may do two retreats if I can, so also if there is a time of year you would prefer, tell me that, too.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">For more information on coaching and editing services, you can check out </span></span><a href="http://edit.originofwriting.com/" style="color: #6dc6dd; font-family: "playfair display", georgia, "times new roman", serif; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">Barclay-Morton Editorial+Design</a><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">, you follow me on my blog </span></span><a href="http://julialeebarclay.blogspot.com/" style="color: #6dc6dd; font-family: arial, "helvetica neue", helvetica, sans-serif; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">Somewhere in Transition</a><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">, Twitter </span></span><a href="https://twitter.com/wilhelminapitfa" style="color: #6dc6dd; font-family: arial, "helvetica neue", helvetica, sans-serif; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">@wilheminapitfa</a><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> or Facebook </span></span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100008456501389" style="color: #6dc6dd; font-family: arial, "helvetica neue", helvetica, sans-serif; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">Julia Lee Barclay-Morton</a><span style="font-family: "playfair display" , "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">. </span></span></td></tr>
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Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-40155915556955856212018-05-23T22:03:00.001-04:002018-05-23T22:03:25.337-04:00The war is over...and I don't know how to live outside a war zoneI have not written here in a while. But as I was walking along in Inwood Hill Park tonight where the Harlem and Hudson Rivers meet, and watching the reflection of the setting sun (the sun itself was behind the cliffs that rise up here on the top tip of Manhattan between the park and the Hudson where the old growth forest still grows), I could hear someone play an electric guitar...not particularly well, but enough to evoke the 1970s and evenings as a child, sometimes riding in people's vans or old cars, and the odd comfort of that, teenagers or young adults playing Led Zepplin and me in the back somewhere doing whatever, but not in charge and knowing somehow for that moment everything was OK.<br />
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I then remembered this realization I had the other day when I was meditating that yes indeed the war is over, but I have no idea how to live outside a war zone. I don't mean that literally in the sense of being in the middle of an actual shooting war (aside from the time we lived on 106th and Amsterdam back in the early 1990s when in fact there were many gun fights outside our window - some with automatic weapons - so bad the police would not show up because - and I quote - "we are outgunned")...but as a child, not guns, but other war zones - some violent physically, some mentally, some verbally, some emotionally, but it was always a crisis and starting as a very young child I had to have my shit together. For instance, my mother has told me, when I was a baby and she and my father would fight violently, so I would hold my breath until I turned blue, which would finally make them stop.<br />
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That kind of thing. Rinse. Repeat.<br />
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Shift characters, locations, details but the out of joint song in which I had to keep my shit together, be vigilant at all times, and therefore could rarely be a child remained the same.<br />
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So, yeah, no, I'm not what you would call laid back. All the yoga and meditation in the world can't undo that shit. It can Help. A lot. It can keep me from inflicting it on others, and at times if I'm lucky myself, but it's not precisely a good run up to peacetime living.<br />
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I'm not going to recite my childhood. Anyone who knows me or has read this blog or my plays can catch the gist, but the point remains: no tools to live in peacetime.<br />
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Which means all the time living on overdrive. Shocking that I became an alcoholic, I know (ha!). But what is a miracle is that I got sober at 23. And still am. At 54. That shit is weird. But even so, still, no windshield and not really, you know, laid back.<br />
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BUT the difference is - when I had this realization while meditating, this time I didn't think OH NO, I HAVE TO DOOOO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS. I HAVE TO HAVE A 10-POINT ACTION PLAN TO DEFEAT MY CRAZINESS. No. I did not go through that. Instead, I just breathed and heard a gentle internal voice say: and that's all you need to know right now.<br />
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You don't have to DO anything about it.<br />
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Just let it settle in. And I am. And just this. The NOT doing, the letting it settle in, is changing my life. It's kind of a miracle. Not by trying to change my life. Instead by Not trying to change my life. The miracle of acceptance. You accept a thing, hold space for it, and voila, it changes. With no effort. If I resist it, it just gets bigger and more intractable.<br />
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And so now, somehow, when feelings I usually find excruciating come up - certain types of sadness or boredom or anxiety or whatever - instead of trying to run away, I just breathe them in. I hold space. I witness. I allow the feelings. I look and see what's there for me to see, feel, experience. And then, yes, it all changes. By not trying to change it.<br />
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It's bizarre.<br />
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Which is all by way of saying when I heard that guy playing the guitar, I let the pleasant kind of nostalgic memory of those peaceful moments in my childhood wash over me. I felt the nostalgia, the desire to be young again, to have life ahead of me instead of at least more than half in the rearview mirror, and also the knowledge that there were these moments of respite - for all the crazy and the crisis. And that while I might not know how to live outside a war zone, I can allow myself these moments and don't have to judge or overanalyze.<br />
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Of course it doesn't help these days how much actual crazy there is in the world and violence and rampant injustice and plain old meanness and cruelty. But the fact is in one form or other that's always been there. I can allow the feelings of powerlessness in and rage and all of it. I can act as I can act, which I do, politically. I can write sometimes, create theater, do my little part. I can spin out, I can step up, I can step aside, freak out, be calm, get angry, cry, wonder what the actual fuck, have a moment of calm, take a walk, stay under the covers, call someone, meditate, stay alone, go be with people, dance, do yoga, write, take a nap, watch stupid things on Netflix, write in this blog, submit work, get rejected, get accepted, feel accomplished, feel like a failure, feel loved, feel lonely, wonder again what the actual fuck, and then breathe and let it all in - when I remember to do so.<br />
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This is the gift of getting older, staying sober for a long time, meditating every day, doing yoga when I remember (not as much as I should in other words) and trying to be a decent person - I begin to be able to accept the whole package.<br />
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I was also thinking walking home: I want to live long, because I need to figure it out, and then I laughed when I heard an internal voice say: that'll only happen when you stop trying to figure it out. Which, like, of course. But what a seduction it is. For someone such as me anyway.<br />
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At night when lying down going to sleep with crystals on me (yes I've turned into That person - try not to hate me), and I sense, my God/dess, so much energy in my head, my mind churning and churning Trying to Figure It Out. And so little energy in the rest of my body. So then breathing into that mysterious rest of me - the part - pretty much all of it - that I routinely ignore. Letting the crystals bring me to those parts of my body. Wondering will I ever allow my body to be fully animated? I don't know. Part of the war zone thing, levels of dissociation I'm not sure will ever go away. It's waaaay better than it used to be. At least I know my body is here. I can even feel it sometimes. A number of years ago, I woke up more fully to my actual emotions (as opposed to the word facsimile cover story that masqueraded as such). But I have a feeling my physical body is the most resistant to my awareness and acceptance. I am only aware of Problems - either physical aches and pains or with How I Look (always wrong) etc. Not sure I will ever be able to embrace my corporeal self, but that's got to be Ok. I don't want to doom myself to this dissociation either. We'll see.<br />
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I can breathe now. I can at times be touched. Sometimes easier than others. But I have always been "touchy" - kind of prickly in a somewhat sneaky way. On the surface, I am warm, but it's a patina, something to a certain degree I taught myself how to do. But underneath there is the shrinking away scared little kid, never sure anyone or anything can be trusted and always ready to pick a fight. It's complex. I certainly don't think I'm alone in this.<br />
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I'm afraid to even write any of this and publish it in public. What will people THINK?! GASP! As if...but still.<br />
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So, here I am. This is me today. Tomorrow or the next day I will post a bunch of things with schedules of events, a staged reading and two readings, all in June. But this is a different post. So be it.<br />
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As the African prayer goes: It is. Thank you.<br />
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Even if that means I never do know how to live in peacetime. I am here. And there is beauty - and even moments of peace - in the midst of the ever whirring chaos in my brain and sometimes heart.Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-33779699654783154652018-04-15T14:35:00.000-04:002018-05-23T22:10:24.172-04:00Waiting on my room...I may have written a very similar blog post about a year and a half ago.<br />
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I am back at Kripalu, a yoga retreat where I have come since 2003. 2003 was a potent year. It's also the year I found the Orkney Islands (well many people for millennia have "found" the Orkney Islands but you get the idea...).<br />
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Now - as in December 2016 - I am waiting for my room. Over the years, the place has grown and become more hotel-like and hence rooms need to become available. On the other hand, the view to mountains and lake is the same, and an undercurrent of deeply healing energy.<br />
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I came today on purpose, because it's the 11th anniversary of my miscarriage, the one after my wedding on our honeymoon. In Cornwall. It was a beautiful day, and a very sad and painful day for me and my then husband. I never got pregnant after that. Should not by rights have been pregnant then. I was 43, no IVF, had had an operation on my uterus to make it possible, but that somehow seemed to make me feel worse for a long time. So it was all a surprise, a happy one, and then it wasn't. I was 12 weeks pregnant, so it was painful, too, physically.<br />
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So for the first time since that happened, I have taken myself away from all that is familiar (well Kripalu is familiar, but not home and I'm not here with anyone I know) to walk through or screech through the feelings as the case may be.<br />
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Coming up by bus I felt the closer we got an almost exquisite sense of loneliness. I say exquisite not as in beautiful but as in so rarefied I almost didn't know what it was. Like distilled water, not mixed with any other emotion, either worse or better.<br />
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I then doubted whether this was a good idea, but then I realized, oh, of course, this part of grieving is that. It is lonely business. People can wave at you from their own shore and tell you about their own experience of such grief, and be holding you with love, but still you are alone in this ice floe.<br />
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It is grey and cold up here today, too, as if to kind of make the point. Underline it. On other hand, the weather in Cornwall was beautiful, the whole damn week that followed, too. We stayed there. What else to do? Go back to London and see everyone from the wedding and have them be pitying towards us. That somehow seemed worse. Would it have been? I don't know.<br />
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I think I was - I definitely was - in shock. So through all the blood and pain I hiked and hiked. Pad after pad soaking, trying to find places to throw them out. Why? Afraid of the pain? probably. Afraid of being alone and crushed by grief and loneliness. Definitely.<br />
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So, here I am. Alone. Waiting for my room.<br />
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Last time I was here, I posted a photo of this same view, and my stepfather David responded to it. He loved Kripalu, too. He died a couple days later, the day I returned - so that turned out to be our last communication. I found out the next day, as we all did. He was alone. He must have called 911 because an ambulance had come and brought him to the hospital, where his friend finally found his body. He was probably dead when he arrived. Massive heart attack. Out of nowhere. Boom. Alone.<br />
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So, coming up here felt way harder than usual. Was afraid even.<br />
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But as the volume goes down on the outside the world, the pain has a chance to surface. I do know from experience not just fortune cookies that experiencing pain mitigates suffering, but in the middle of it of course it can be hard to remember.<br />
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I haven't written a blog post in a while but this felt like the right time, if for no other reason than I am in the cafe drinking coffee and waiting for my room.<br />
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My temporary home for 3 days.<br />
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This is the view. I never tire of the way the mountains layer in color and form in the distance. One of the best things about getting out of the city is the ability to see distances. Even if misty and obscured. There are literally shades of grey here today. And dark greens and blues...but mostly grey tinted by blue...<br />
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There is a lot of wind today - intimations of Orkney. Where I will be again this summer. These refuges I have been so lucky to find later in life. Where things change a lot, but there is something underneath deeper than these changes that remains.<br />
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It is precisely that to which I can attune more easily in these places and to which I attune more and more each year.<br />
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That is where that which can hold me through the healing resides. It doesn't make it less painful, but it makes it possible.<br />
<br />Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-77225106131206756852018-03-23T01:47:00.002-04:002018-03-23T01:47:23.609-04:00Briefly...Hi all,<br />
<br />
Just writing to say I am writing. I am writing now - after many years of writing for public consumption here, stage texts, many FB posts, and two books - for myself. A very private project. I don't know if it will ever see the light of day.<br />
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However, that is the mode I am in, so not sure how many blog posts there will be for a little while.<br />
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The outline of what I am doing is a deeply personal excavation project. I need to kind of protect the space around it in order to do it.<br />
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I will periodically announce things here, and who knows, maybe write some posts, too, but there is a shift, it feels right, and wanted to give you who have read this page a heads up.<br />
<br />Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3257399284971492459.post-56990542014274383822018-03-04T04:13:00.000-05:002018-03-04T04:28:10.399-05:0031 years of not killing myself one day at a time....I have not been blogging much because I've been working on some new writing, something that may in fact never see the light of day but seems to be important for my psychic survival.<br />
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Somehow this relates to being 31 years sober as of yesterday. Because while I do talk about this process periodically, it's mostly something I do in private.<br />
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I can say this about that however: it requires a continual excavation of the self and a commitment to helping others do the same, to find a way to walk through each day without a drink or a drug to dull the pain. Or whatever else one might want dulled.<br />
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I am exhausted and not sure why I am writing this now, but today was a gift, was able to share some of what I have learned with a dear friend, go to yoga and feel my heart and how tight it is right now, how my shoulders are protecting it, how they probably always have been, how painful that is and how compassionate I need to be with myself even so. There is good reason for that protection. It is tempting to be disappointed in myself that I still hide out, still fear people, still fear a lot of things. But that is as ridiculous as being disappointed in anyone else for being afraid, which I rarely am, not if they are aware of the fear anyway.<br />
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Sobriety is a paradox of both having to become aware of my darkest and most vulnerable parts, but also somehow give them space, not reject them, because that causes denial or dissociation. It seems to be for me these days about holding space for infinite complexity including massive contradictions and conflicts within myself. I am committed to not exiling parts of myself because they are not convenient or are embarrassing or whatever. This can be challenging and sometimes a pain in the ass to be honest.<br />
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However, as I walk through this journey day by day, both internally and in some cases within my writing, I feel I land more firmly on the earth, touch down even to the ocean floor of my own psyche, that vast silence filled with strange creatures and detritus thrown from the surface that just kind of landed there.<br />
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I have some deep frustrations with some external situations over which I have limited control, some shame over certain career achievements not having been reached. So much shame I don't really want to say that out loud, fearing judgment. But since this is all about being transparent with myself, it seems absurd not to say it.<br />
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But the larger fact is for all this, I don't want to drink or take any substances today, and I'm not acting out in other ways to ease the pain or confusion. Sometimes that seems like a ridiculous thing to say out loud after 31 years, but since I am aware of people who have gone out drinking after 10-20-30 years sober, and some who have died as a consequence, it's not a small thing.<br />
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Long term sobriety is not glamorous, it's life experienced - everything all the time - with the volume turned to 11. As I have said before - life without shock absorbers...and no windshield.<br />
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However, there are moments like today when I can talk to a dear friend such that my experience of this walking can give relief, maybe shed light, or other times I can talk to someone who is new to this life and help them stay sober another day. Then all the muddling through and the seemingly at times absurd lengths I go to be honest with myself and others that frankly at times seems to verge on self-destructive, has meaning.<br />
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I wish I could say which way to go forward with my life was crystal clear. It's not. I have lived one day at a time for so long now I don't think I know any other way. Each day is about being more or less in tune with a sort of internal divining rod that I let guide me.<br />
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I do meditate every day. I try to do some yoga and walk. I write most every day. I try to be a decent human being. This year I'm also doing a fair bit of political work for obvious reasons, like - you know - survival, but am grateful for having found a way to do that that is both relatively simple and incredibly effective.<br />
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I hold space for others who are going through tricky changes and who are discovering their voices - in life and art. I spend a lot of time - that I love - working with other writers - as a teacher, coach, editor and friend.<br />
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I wonder what has happened to my theater work as a director, I seem to only be writing now for the most part. I kind of miss the rehearsal room but my internal divining rod has led me away from that for the lasy while. Will it lead me back? I don't know.<br />
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So much I don't know.<br />
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But I am sober. I have walked through a lot of life this way, more years than I was alive when I hit my bottom at 23 - a horrifying sense of not even existing in some way - not to mention not being able to even get drunk anymore. I wish I could tell you it's all been a glittering triumph or that I was a paragon of mental health, but that would be a lie. It's been a journey, one that still continues. A bumpy ride at times, other times exhilarating and seemingly effortless, some years full of grief and low level depression, and some moments even now, 31 years later, when it feels like there is a trap door that has opened up beneath me that I tumble down wondering when I will hit a bottom, seemingly lost and thinking: wait, what? I'm 54, shouldn't I be you know More Together Than This?<br />
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I try not to take these moments of confusion, which at times are painful, out on anyone, but sometimes I do, mostly the people closest to me of course. One of the things I am examining so closely now is how I navigate such things and why. Imprints from a chaotic childhood as an only child amongst multiple caretakers most of whom had wildly different value systems from one another and most of whom were not really meant to have kids but there I was - the proverbial inconvenient truth. Sometimes consequently, I feel safest when alone, because only then do I have to account to no one. That is an illusion of course, because it's not like all those people and experiences just vanish when I'm by myself.<br />
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Alcoholism amongst other things is a disease of isolation, it wants you alone in a room and dead. So, this is one of my primary conflicts, both desiring being alone and knowing at times I need to resist that urge. To allow others to see me in more vulnerable states, which I find so shameful, especially fear.<br />
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I was told when I began recovery: you need never be alone again. I did not understand it then. But I do now. I might feel lonely. I meet be alone, but I am not <i>alone</i>. I am connected to so many people and to whatever powers this internal divining rod and a sense - astonishingly enough and more and more - of a place amidst the cosmos. Hard to explain that and won't even try at close to 4am, but it's a great piece of knowledge - not as in facts but as in<i> </i>something far deeper.<br />
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Finally, also, a sense of happiness seeing people younger than me agitating for a new and better world. I remember so vividly being that age and agitating my heart out, but it was the Reagan era and no one listened. What a joy it is to see these young people be heard. It gives me great joy. My friend Spencer once said he felt that those of us who don't have our own children have a certain love to offer the world and young people specifically that those with children have to reserve for their own kids, and I feel that now more than ever. I feel an optimism for the future that I have never felt before. I don't know if I'll be alive to see it in full flower, because when I mean future - I mean Future as in 30-50 years from now, but there is hope.<br />
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I mean to do my best to help keep the world alive for this new generation to take over. I used to joke with my theater work I felt like those medieval monks who hand copied the Greek and Latin texts in monasteries to keep them alive until those ideas finally fueled the Renaissance. And I see now it's not just the theater, it's my whole life that is this, living and creating, in hope for this new world that now seems possible - a tiny glimmer on a horizon - one that I will make whatever is left of my life's work to not see extinguished.<br />
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What does this have to do with sobriety? A lot actually, because in staying sober and helping others do the same, it's the same kind of thing. Passing on what I have been given, keeping alive something that is only kept alive by free action of people who are never paid, except in the gift of our own sobriety, our own lives.<br />
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But now I have rambled enough for the time being. Thank you for reading, for bearing witness, for holding space.Julia Lee Barclay-Mortonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148106233642560088noreply@blogger.com0