Breathing | Bethany Bassett

Tag: Breathing

Fireworks

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 6 Comments

I have to remind myself to calm down.

This is only the third day of early alarms. Only three morning hours pulled away from the stars and given to the words that tug on their leashes. 686 words the first day, 738 yesterday, 505 this morning—not many, but almost 2000 more than I started the week with.

This is something to celebrate.

This is something to take in stride.

As it goes every time a writing project lights up my mind with fireworks, I treat inspiration like a house ablaze. Every moment is an emergency with exclamation points and a fierce dread of what will happen if I don’t write twenty pages NOW. I kick myself under the desk for being such a slow writer. (I mean, my paragraphs come together about as quickly as Medieval cathedrals… and that’s with coffee.) I compare the timeline of my life to other authors and bemoan that I’m three years overdue for my Great American Novel. The housework falls behind and the girls entertain themselves while I stare at my computer screen, trying to coax a few more sentences out of a tired afternoon.

This sense of urgency was hardwired into me a long time ago—admittedly in a religious context, but so effectively that I fill up each day’s schedule with an impossible number of tasks and then feel guilty for not finishing. My mind fights continuously against my brain, my heart, and my energy levels to accomplish more, more, now, now… and it’s worse when it’s something I love.

I so appreciate the Julia Cameron quote Christina posted a few days ago:

“Most of us live with a continual sense of emergency. We have a fear that we are too late and not enough to wrestle a happy destiny from the hands of the gods. What if there is no emergency? What if there is no need to wrestle? What if our only need is receptivity and a gentle openness to guidance? What if, like the Arabian horses grazing outside my window, we are simply able to trust?”

That there are more days to this life, more hidden springs of inspiration, more quiet hours of words set free in sequence, is a concept both foreign and wonderful to me. It whispers that I can write without sacrificing my girls’ childhoods or my own sanity. It means that a few hundred words a day are enough. It gives me permission to walk toward the fireworks without grasping or giving up and to write a book over a ten-year span if that’s how long it takes.

(Though I really hope it doesn’t.)

4Jan

Sea Legs

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 4 Comments

It’s snowing in Venice today. We’re tucked up on the mainland without either the outerwear or the gumption to attempt sightseeing, so I content myself with peeking out of our friends’ window at the park, its lake half-frozen and dotted with disinterested seagulls. As always when snow falls, the world is silent.

The quiet seeps over me in little waves, both relaxing and unsettling. I realize what I do every January—that the holidays have directed my time with such a sense of obligation that I’ve lost grasp of myself. Again. Every day of the past few weeks, my need for stretches of personal peace has been reasoned away with “We only get to see them once a year” and “The sale only lasts today” and “He’s taking vacation time for this.” I am incredibly grateful we were able to spend our holidays with family and friends, but I did an abysmal job of recharging… and I’m not sure how much anyone enjoyed my tightly-wound, guilt-enforced presence.

This afternoon, with the house to myself and a few quiet hours stretching ahead, I feel unsteady. Duties swoop and dive like hungry gulls—clean the bathroom, write an e-mail, catch up on blogs, make a phone call, work on the budget, edit photos. But I want my sea legs back, my calm center, my sense of belonging in this deep peace, and that means following one particular obligation to myself.

Hint #1: It starts with “n” and ends with “aptime.”

Hint #2: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz….

18Nov

Cherry Tree Creed

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 10 Comments

I’ve hinted on here before about my rather extreme religious upbringing, but I’m hesitant to say much more about it. One part of me goes a little giddy at Anne Lamott’s quote, “If my family didn’t want me to write about them, they should’ve behaved better.” Yes, yes, yes! I cheer, until it comes to actually putting the ragged parts of my story into words and I inevitably whisper No. I can’t tell whom exactly my people-pleasing brain is trying to protect, but it balks when my honesty tries to reach back more than a decade. Some details are too ugly for the light of day.

Nevertheless, the way I was raised is relevant to who I am today. Painfully relevant. After all, the frequent religious apologetics classes and brainwashing camps were my introduction to doubting God’s existence. The behavior I saw in the churches and cults our family was involved with taught me about the tight-lipped smiling delusion so many people define as Christianity. The forced hours of Old Testament reading every week took me beyond disbelief in God into the dark territory of hatred. You get the idea, at least in part.

I spent most of my life under such a heavy religious terror that my sense of logic had to be locked up along with my emotions and honesty. The most redeeming thing that could have happened was when I gave up caring and let my doubts and anger tumble out of hiding. Depression helped, oddly enough. I already felt so low that keeping up my pretense of believing God no longer mattered. Deal with it, I told him. I may have tried punching him a time or two as well.

I see now that it had to be completely destroyed, that old belief system with its blackened stone walls and bloody gouge marks. I had to lose enough hope to operate the wrecking ball myself. And slowly—slowly enough to be revolutionary in the we-could-die-and-face-judgment-any-minute mindset I had been taught—a new belief system is being reconstructed in my heart. It has floor-to-ceiling windows and an indoor cherry tree, and I suspect it will be some kind of spa once it is finished. There are no longer any shadowy nooks for shame, eternal damnation, party politics, or generational curses to hang out in.

A friend lent me The Shack to read a couple of months ago (the amount of time I’ve spent “forgetting” to return it makes me think I should probably just buy my own copy already). Reading it felt very much like having my rib cage pried open and all of my struggles with God exposed to the operating room lights… and then gently re-formed into such an expansive hope that my body has trouble accommodating it. Between the fresh perspective offered in that book (I can’t tell you how much I love that God reveals herself as an African-American woman) and the radical kindness of Jesus’s words, many of my questions are finally finding their perfect fit in answers — ones that don’t traumatize me or require me to suspend logic or darken my soul atmosphere. I don’t have everything figured out yet—for instance, I’m still searching for an explanation for the contradictory, violent God depicted in the Old Testament—but I am so relieved to finally have a creed that lets my heart breathe deep:

(I refer to God with female pronouns because in that way I can comprehend her differentness from the patriarchal judge of my childhood.)

I believe that:

The Bible…
is a picture of who God is and what a relationship with her is like,
not a comprehensive encyclopedia for all the facets of existence,
and not a textbook,
and not a list of rules
(as if we could follow the rules anyway).

Free will…
means God values humans enough to give us the freedom of choice
and limits herself by not overriding those choices,
even the bad ones
(which hurt her too),
but always providing opportunities even through the bad choices
for us to clearly see her love.

God…
does not instigate tragedy, only works through and beyond it
as the life-force of the universe,
the energy, the concept of light, the goodness,
merciful enough to do away with justice
because she is love
(and not gender specific ☺).

Jesus…
is God in human form,
not a human with divine superpowers but human-human,
with emotions and needs and frustrations,
whose life flowed from his relationship with God
(who neither orchestrated his death nor abandoned him,
only worked incredible good through it).

The Holy Spirit…
is their divine presence—undiluted love—
landscaping the beautiful mess of our hearts,
the piercing loveliness we feel during a certain song
or a beautiful day or moments of profound peace,
always here and never finished.

Prayer…
is simply the ongoing dialogue
as the four of us live together,
acknowledging that the unseen is real
and that relationship is all that truly matters,
and that God cares…
which could probably be called faith.

Life on earth…
is a process that won’t culminate until all is made new,
blessedly temporary
(which I know when I agonize over the too-few hours each day),
but a good time for the element of choice to get worked out—
a messy and necessary step for a God who respects us
and who continues to participate in our stories
outside the bounds of time and breath.

Then heaven…
will be all this as it was meant to be
without the violation of a single free will,
every heart finally connected to God’s,
finally capable of channeling her extravagant love
and enjoying complete creativity and fulfillment along with her,
seeing the beautiful face of our planet unscarred—
life on earth, redeemed.

And I…
am not a convert or a heretic
or a warrior or a one-size-fits-all
or a guest of honor on the doorman’s list
or a project to be finished
but one member of a completely unique relationship with the Divine
who values me enough not to impose rules or limitations
and promises a never-ending process
toward fullest life,
beautiful change accomplished hand-in-hand,
and a love I am just beginning to absorb.

29Apr

From To-Do to Tourist

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 6 Comments

Part 3 (Part 1 here, Part 2 here)

“Tourist” has always struck me as a bad word, even as I’ve filled the role. When we go out here in Italy, I take care to wear nice clothes and speak Italian… as if locals could possibly overlook my freckles and accent. I have a proper horror of becoming one of those intruders who bosses her way through other cultures with too-loud laughter and flip-flops on cobblestone streets. All the same, the Italians were the ones sticking out like dissonant notes as we wound our way down the Amalfi Coast three Saturdays ago. Despite the shimmering sunwaves, locals trudged the beach in coats zipped tightly over sweaters. I had only to imagine the sweat pooling in their Armani boots before realizing I didn’t mind looking like a tourist so much. Sleeves up, camera out, adventure on!

Through the archway - Note the tour buses

The town of Amalfi looked like I’ve always envisioned Caribbean cruise stops—gimicky souvenir shops, colorful paint jobs, and a wealth of sunburnt tourists. But instead of dance halls, it had cathedrals, and instead of coconuts, it had lemons. Correction: LEMONS. Asteroid-impersonating, substance-abusing, borderline-pornographic, “holy crap, is that a fruit?!” LEMONS that were sixty different kinds of impressive. In addition to crates of these yellow footballs, shop owners offered an array of lemon-themed products that would have done Bubba Gump proud: lemon liqueur, lemon soap, lemon jewelry, lemon chocolate, lemon glassware, lemon pasta, lemon candles, lemon zesters, and a teensy bottle of lemon perfume that I immediately claimed as my own. One vendor even gave us each a slice of freshly peeled lemon to eat, sour pulp and sweet pith combining in a magical springtime flavor. We were powerless to resist.

We spent the day with absolutely no plan except enjoyment—the perfect antidote to my to-do list disorder. My only jobs for the afternoon were to wander the sun-dappled streets of Sorrento eating gelato with my family (tough, huh?) and to lean out the window like a breeze-drunk puppy as we drove the coast. Not a mop in sight, just the bright April air and peace. Every vacation should be so lucky.

If I could, I would take you all back with me to breathe in every blue nuance of the Tyrrhenian. We would stand above the Emerald Grotto memorizing every sparkle of the sea and the mysterious architecture of cliffs. You could help me amuse my husband by gasping after every one of the bajillion bends in the road and swooning over each bloom of wisteria. You would help me find friendly faces and flesh-eating zombies in the rocks above. We would soak up the sunshine like the thirsty sponges we are and come home smelling faintly of paradise.

Three weeks later, I still haven’t written a to-do list.

22Apr

Pot-Smoking Ants

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Part 2 (Part 1 here)

Dan and I approach vacations the way pot-smoking ants on a budget might. We pack smart, arrange for the cheapest accommodations that will let us sleep without fear, and then get busy chilling the hell out. We’ve been perfecting our technique for the last six years, and we have a pretty good ratio of relaxation to insanity by now. It works wonders, too; nary a trip goes by without granting us a story to tell.

Take this last Good Friday, for instance. Not that we remembered it was Good Friday—those first magical kilometers of the Amalfi Coast had driven everything but beauty out of our minds—but we could not have planned a more unique overnight stay had we tried. As we drove through the quaint town of Minori looking for directions to the campground, shopkeepers and homeowners busied themselves nailing red cups to their outside walls. “Any idea what that’s all about?” I asked Dan. “Not remotely. Any idea what turn we’re supposed to take?”

We soon figured out why not even the omniscient Google Maps could provide us with directions to the campground: It was smack-dab in the middle of a mountainside lemon grove. No roads. Just steps… and steps… and steps. “I think this is more than 80 steps,” I panted down to Dan as we lugged our children and camping gear up the uneven stone staircase. “The website said 80!” he answered dubiously while I took my sixteenth break. We counted some time later, and here’s a question for you mathematically-inclined readers: Are 80 and 254 the same number? My aching muscles are not as sure on that point as the website writer apparently was.

False advertising aside, the campground was worth every one of those 254 steps. Not only were we setting up tent in a fairyland of ripe lemons and glossy leaves, but the children’s playground featured two gentle, snuffling ponies. And from our site, we could look down across the treetops to the town nestling like an old friend up against the sea.

Once the sun set, we tromped down the hill and drove toward town for supper, only to be stopped by a policeman in the throes of excitement. “Park there! Turn your lights off! Now!” he whisper-shouted, pointing to a 10-foot-high burning cross. We obeyed, wondering what in the world we had gotten ourselves into. Every light in the town had been turned off with the exception of thousands upon thousands of red candles. Oh, and the burning cross of course.

We had to park in front of the KKK cross

“KKK?” Dan and I asked at the same time. Two minutes later, as if eager to corroborate our frightening first impression, the flame-lit streets filled with white pointed hoods and gowns. I have never seen anything outside of movies with which to compare that ghostly parade. Hundreds of white hooded figures marched quietly up the street, brandishing candles and lanterns, then a brass band somewhere in the darkness began to play a dirge. Men in their funeral best walked by shouldering a coffin atop which lay a horrifying, emaciated figure of Jesus, while others followed closely behind carrying the gaudiest statue of Mary I had ever seen. I felt at once anxious for people to know we weren’t Holy Week participants but also amazed that we ended up in just the right place and time to see something new. Eerie, yes. Skull-itchingly creepy, yes. But worth seeing all the same.

We eventually escaped from the clutches of the Good Friday parade and tracked down some pizza, limoncello, and a complimentary Jehovah’s Witness for supper before hiking back up to our campsite. The girls giggled themselves silly in the tent while Dan and I soaked up the starlight. Civilization, with all its hustle and bustle and joy-starved intensity, felt worlds away; we could breathe again. The four of us fell asleep together like accidental woodland creatures in our tent, the scents of lemons and the sea mingling on the April breeze. And as simple as that, our one night’s stay turned into two.

Part 3 to come.

23Mar

Malady Du Jour

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Today’s malady du jour: vertigo. I woke up this morning to a head skipping like a scratched disc, waves of dizziness repeating ad nauseum. The doctor, diagnosing by phone as I was in no condition to leave the house (or, um, the bed), suggested it might be an inner-ear infection, which I want to make sense. I could use some extra sense right now, and perhaps a mysterious bug caught in the mazes of my head can explain the host of physical-mental symptoms I’ve been muddling through. Like headaches, great and small. Backaches. Stomachaches. Leg-aches. Heartaches. Draft folders crammed with half-written e-mails and blog posts I can’t seem to finish. Telephones ringing off the hook while I put another pillow over my head. Panic attacks. My body closing in on me until I have to force each breath. Loss of appetite. Loss of motivation. Loss of that little somethin’ somethin’ that used to add sparkle to my days.

“It’s probably a milk allergy,” assured one friend. Another one told us of an endocrinologist where I could get my thyroid checked. Another friend suggested I ask for antidepressants, while yet another one told me about some great counseling services… 6,000 impossible miles away. Suddenly it’s not just the vertigo making me dizzy as I spin through the options and consider the frightening subjectiveness of medical diagnoses. I start to feel claustrophobic at the thought that I live in a non-English-speaking country, but I should be honest: I wouldn’t know where to start looking in the States either.

I go to the doctor in a few days, and I desperately want to solve myself before then. I am reluctant, embarrassed, to explain the multitude of ways in which I am sucking right now, and I would love to tell him, “Look Doc, I seem to be suffering from a food allergy. Please to medicate.” Doctors appreciate it when patients diagnose themselves, right?

The one good thing about this prolonged mystery illness is that, as it slowly drains the color from life, my priorities come into sharp black-and-white focus. I may not be able to accomplish much right now, but I can snuggle my girls for a long afternoon nap… and realize how much more important that is than cleaning or shopping or worrying about everything I’m not getting done. The world won’t stop if I’m unproductive this month, and perhaps marinating in the love of my sweet family may be my best treatment plan.

11Mar

Association-Free

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 3 Comments

Today was a better day.

Perhaps that’s all the explanation I need to give for the last few weeks. That, and the fact that I’m finally putting letters together on a page without abusing the backspace key most disgracefully.

We’re on Day 4 of a settimana bianca in the Alps, and the wild incongruity of cautious, southern-bred me whizzing down slopes on a snowboard is doing me good. I love feeling like the wind, or at least the wind’s unfashionable second cousin who occasionally goes sprawling in a ploof of powder. It’s like breathing caffeine. Not even my ridiculously painful snowboard boots matter when I’m taking off down the mountain into a more alive version of myself.

Growing up in Texas gave me no context for cable cars and snow-tufted lodge gables, and I’m okay with that. This week can just be, free from associations. It can just be the glitter of fresh-faced sunrises on the snow. Pots of hot chocolate for breakfast. The soft crunch of boots and whirring of ski lifts. Funny bruises. Adorable preschoolers shuffling in misspelled lines during ski school. Pure air in our faces. At least one Better Day to remember this vacation by.

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