Benji, My Teacher

Benji, September 2022

You snuggle your skinny body up to me, press your back into my belly. I can almost feel the bony ridges of your spine through the covers. It’s rare we cuddle this way, and this may be the last time.

Ever.

So, I wrap my arm around your once strong chest and hold your heart in my hand. It thumps under the rib cage, under your silky fur, under your skin and muscles, now soft with age.

You rest your head near mine, and on occasion you press it back into my face. I kiss the top of your hard, bony skull. We lie there and I feel your breath move in and out and notice you take some longer, deeper breaths. I naturally follow your rhythm and take a longer inhale, exhale.

You’ve always been my teacher.
“Breathe” you seem to be saying.

As we lie here, I remember why we called you Benji the Bullet. How you took off in the woods after deer one day in the middle of winter. How I was alone with you and Zara, how the landscape was bleached by snow, how my fingers were frozen, how I had no sense of direction. How I thought I’d lost you.

I remember the days of tug of war with the blue Kong toy. You and Erez on the living room floor, rolling and tossing, jumping, and you growling – all for effect. Both of you gripped the blue Kong tug of war toy for life. Fierce, strong, determined. You drew sweat and grit from Erez. And most of the time you won! You taught me to never give up.

I remember keep away in the living room, how Erez and I would station ourselves at either end, no furniture in between us, and we’d throw the ball back and forth, you’d run this way and that to catch it and then leap in the air, pirouette, and snatch the yellow ball out of the air like a crocodile snaps up its prey. You taught me to keep my eye on the ball.

I remember all your nose nudges to my elbow while I sat at my computer. You’d tell me, “Time to take a break. Let’s go play, let’s go for a walk,” and me always answering with “in just a minute. I have just one more thing to do.”

As you’ve aged, you’ve taught me to chill, to sit still, to watch life go by, look out the window, watch the leaves flutter, listen to the birds.

Yes, as I lie here, you teach me again to be present. Present to this last moment with you, arms wrapped around you, feeling your heartbeat, listening to you breathe, feeling the warmth of your body pressed against mine.

Present.
With this.
Here now.

Practice

I am practicing.
Practicing being here.
Not there.
Not somewhere over there
far away in some other land
full of warm, wet air
and large shiny leaves.

Yes, I am practicing being here.
Now.
Walking icy paths,
cleats on my boots,
wool hat covering my ears,
my neck wrapped in soft wool.

But, sometimes, because
of the well-worn pathways of wanting
something other than what is,
I long for another life.

Over there.
Somewhere.
Not here.
Not cold.
No cleats necessary.

So, I count my blessings
when I remember to.
The simple ones.
Strong legs.
Warm mittens.
Cozy sweaters.

And when the sun beams
through the winter sky
and drops a golden ray
on my head
I soak it in.

Blessed.

Right here.
Right now.

by Diane Sherman

It’s Time

It’s time.

Time to pause.
To stop.
To breathe.

Time to look inside,
wide-eyed, listen to
where the soul abides.

Yes!  It’s time.

We are in this together.
No one spared.
Not the gray haired,
the visually impaired,
the ones who care,
nor the well-prepared.

No border recognized
despite those who agonize
criticize, demonize,
or over-analyze. 

We are all at risk,
players in the same game
trying to reframe,
let’s stop placing blame
or trying to induce shame.

Yes, it’s time.

To pause.
To be.
Do less.
Breathe more.
Soak in the sweet silence of snow,
help someone on skid row,
work on a new tableau.

It’s time!

To offer what you can.
Lend a helping hand.
Nothing grand.
A kind word, a note in the mail,
kiss your dog, watch him wag his tail.
Dance with your friends,
make soup, say grace,
thank God for this amazing place.

It’s time.

Take stock.
Consider who you came to be
and set your spirit free.

By Diane Sherman, 2021

My Teacher

Night’s curtain fades,
becomes a thin sheath
between dreamtime and wake.

It is our time together
when you press your back
into my belly.

Sleep lingers, muscles
twitch, your breath
heavy.

I wrap my arm around
your barrel chest
hold your heart
in my hand.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Torrents of twitches
convulse your limbs.

I imagine you running
in the other world
chasing balls
catching them mid-air.

Your breathing quickens
heartbeat steady
in my hand.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.

Again and again, 
you teach me to rest.
To luxuriate amongst
the pillows and stretch 
askance on the bed.

You teach me to focus.
Keep my eye on the ball.

You teach me to look 
out the window
and enjoy what’s arriving
moment by moment
day by day. 

Getting Present!

It’s 1999, I’ve just been hit by a car as a pedestrian and left in the middle of a busy street as the car zooms off. The sirens I hear are for me. They’re never for you. This time they are.

Fast forward to August 1999, after rahabbing for six months at my parent’s house in Oakland, spending inordinate amounts of time healing my body, journaling, praying, and moving through a slew of feelings.

I decided it was time for a vision quest, with no other than Roshi Joan Halifax, of Zen Hospice in Santa Fe, NM. It was a 12-day Zen retreat, 4 of which would be spent solo on some part of a mountain with only water, no shelter and a lot of time to contemplate.

I was ready to contemplate. 
I had been giving another shot at life after being left for dead in the street. 
My biggest question was “What am I here to do?”

That is the question I sat with for 4 days. Four days in which I had prayed so much for sun, because of my fear of being rained on, that when we got so much sun, I was praying for rain. Right? 

As I chased shade moving from one rock to the next around the skinny coniferous trees, I kept asking: “What am I here to do?”

The answer? 
“Get present.”

“No really, what am I here to DO?” I asked. 
I wanted specifics. 
“Become a nurse. Or become a civil rights social worker. Or become an interpreter.”
I got, “Get present.”

That is all. 
Four days. 
Chasing shade. 
Begging for rain at the end of those 108 hours.
“Get present.”

I’ve chewed on that answer for years. I became a yoga teacher the following year. I’ve spent thousands of hours on my mat, “getting present.” But I’m a fast mover, a hummingbird, someone who flits from here to there. Erez, my former spouse, used to tell me, “You have thorns up your ass,” meaning you can never sit down. 

Yes. 
Thorns up my ass. 
Indeed.

Well, THIS year, 22 years after that retreat, I got the best inoculation of “getting present” when I got COVID in March. Though I have practiced getting present for years through yoga, dance, writing, art – being knocked on my ass, with no energy, no ability to talk, no real ability to DO anything, I got present.

I really got present. 

Here at home. 
With nowhere to go. 
No, with no energy to GO anywhere. 
Nothing to do. 

I got present and my dogs sat with me. 
My garden bloomed and morphed all around me over the last six months. 
I watched it all.

I got present with what I was going through. 
The low energy. The shredded lungs, the coughing. 
I got present with gratitude, with appreciation for the love in my life. 
For my mom, my friends, the resources I have – my home, my beautiful things.

I got present with the enough-ness of it all. 
It’s enough to just be. 
Here. 
Right now.

Unmasked

Today I vow to living unmasked,
to speak answers from my heart,
to no longer squirm and hide,
morph into some palatable
and appropriate version of myself
for you to be comfortable,
whoever you are,
which meant, and I didn’t
know this at the time,
that I would have to sit
with my own discomfort
in fear of your judgement,
your rejections, your blame
or condemnation,
for simply being myself,
for standing naked before you,
this one who has shape-shifted
and chamelioned herself
for nearly 60 years into
appropriateness and palatability.

I see, now, how I have
homogenized myself,
made myself bland instead
of standing naked before you
as one who has wrestled 
with unworthiness, battled 
jealousy, gone to war with shame
and all the places of “not-enoughness.”

Oh, the exterior is a ruse,
the blonde, blue eyed, well-educated,
well-traveled, dancer, artist, writer, 
teacher…and….

All of that is true too…

But today is a special day,
because to unmask myself
means to show you
the parts I’ve been hiding.

Weren’t we beautiful?

Weren’t we beautiful? 
The way we used to dance and twirl, drip sweat onto the floor, push and pull each other’s arms and hands, fierce strong legs pressed down into the wood beneath our feet? Weren’t we beautiful the way we touched, just fingers, ever so lightly as the Chopin music filled the room, the morning’s buttery sun light warmed our arms and we gazed with open hearts all the way down the river of blue eyes or brown eyes meeting in the soul?

Weren’t we beautiful, the way we used to run and jump into each other’s arms, you lifting me, me wrapping my legs around you and we’d hold there, as one together for a moment, feeling the heat of one another’s bodies, the beat of each other’s hearts, hearing the breath moving through the lungs and smelling the hint of mint tea or coffee on the other’s breath.

Weren’t we beautiful in our physical forms, writhing to the music, swinging around each other, hopping, tip toeing, stomping the beats, hips swiveling, spine’s undulating? We felt the power of stomp and clap, would get lost in the reveries of song. Hearts opened with gratitude, longing, sadness, ecstasy, joy. 

Weren’t we beautiful? 
Those days feel like a distant cousin, a thing of the past. 

Now we dance in our living rooms, share ourselves with hundreds of little squares on a screen. We stare into laptops, watch figures move and arms flail in their own little pods while we wiggle hips. The music streams from the same source, the beat is one.

But there is no heat of the other, no pulse in the heart, the loins, no sweat exchanged. Solo, alone, confined, constricted.

Now we zoom. 
Dance and ZOOM. 
Safe in our isolated bubbles. 

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to be in one collective for a moment in time, but I feel the longing to touch, to hug, to bump hips, to nestle up to my own kind, feel the heat of blood and muscles moving underneath the skin. 

Underneath the skin.

I do. 
It’s true.
Don’t you? 

Becoming My Own Best Friend

The year I decided to become my own best friend, was the year people in my world seemed to scatter to the far corners of the earth, my husband became consumed in his work, new friends in town were busy, old friends were occupied with their lives, so that left me with myself.

Just me.

Now, I had always thought I was comfortable being alone – after all, I grew up an only child, I knew how to entertain myself. I would draw, or dance, or ride my bike. As an adult, I noticed I filled my time with similar activities – going for a hike, writing in my journal, doing yoga, cleaning. And yet, I didn’t just “hang out” with myself. I didn’t know how to hang out and let the moments unfold. I usually had a plan, and for much of my adult life, I crammed my weekends full of activities – meeting friends for dinner, going to shows, having coffee at new places in town.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something in my relationship with myself was missing.

I’d spent a good portion of life morphing into what I thought other people wanted me to be. I  was a consummate chameleon, making sure not to offend anyone, saying the right thing, stuffing my true opinions back inside if they were controversial. I had a hard time standing in my own center, because, in truth, I don’t think I knew myself THAT well. I’d been a people pleaser, and had gotten so many accolades from pleasing others, that my ego latched onto that strategy for a long time.

Until I declared that I wanted to become my own best friend.
That was 2014.

When I set that intention on New Year’s Day I thought it was a lovely, supportive heart-warming and kind intention. Who wouldn’t want to become their own best friend? Little did I know I’d have to travel through some dark alley-ways of myself to integrate the bits I had dispossessed. I would have to retrieve aspects of myself that were hard to acknowledge, feel and bear witness to.

I’m talking about those bits that came in the form of anger, jealousy, resentment, judgmental-ness, shame, blame, anger and grief. There were the happy places I’d also get to know more deeply – the joyful, ecstatic, fun, playful, risk-taking, active parts of me that were pleasurable to feel and acknowledge. 

Prior to my stating my intention of becoming my own best friend, I thought I was “living the dream.” I had a husband who loved me, I lived in a gorgeous house on a park in Spokane, WA with two dogs and a cat, our furry family. I had great friends, loving parents, good health, skills to do many different things. I had resources to travel the world. The world WAS my oyster.

And yet….

Something was missing….some deep inner contentment. I could feel how I was dissatisfied with my life, even though it presented so well. All the boxes checked off. I noticed how I wanted more of my husband’s attention, I took it personally when friends didn’t call me back in what I thought was a reasonable amount of time. I noticed how I didn’t feel like my teaching career had bloomed into what my vision for it had been.

Deep down inside, I felt a bit like a looser. It was so hard to put my finger on. Somewhere inside, I didn’t value myself. I kept myself running around at such a high speed that I never had to feel the feelings of unworthiness, sadness, insecurity. Without knowing it, I chased the words “You’re so amazing, Diane,” which I often heard from people and it was like a line of cocaine (something I never actually tried!) The “hit” of praise kept me running to the next activity to prove how great I was – for one more moment. 

It was exhausting. I was chasing my ego from here to there, running this way and that way to hear those words.

So, in the first 6 months of 2014, I was literally left with myself. No one was available to distract me and that’s when I turned back to my art practice. I’d been an artist all of my life, but had put it on hold for a good decade as I dove into studies of yoga and meditation.

Slowly, through the art process, I began to witness my patterns of thought – I’d notice how the inner critic came out to tell me what a crappy artist I was because I couldn’t draw well. I noticed how I loved the beginning part of making a painting – that free, fun zone where you’re throwing paint on a canvas to get texture and color down. But then, when something emerged on the canvas that I liked, I’d freeze, afraid I’d mess it up. Sometimes, paintings sat in my studio for 6 months, ½ finished because I was paralyzed to take them any further.

What I began to see as the dominant pattern in my life is that I was not in charge of my own life. It felt more like I was in a little dingy, out at sea, floating along with the waves that moved me this way and that. I was in a completely receptive mode, accepting whatever came my way, instead of making things happen.

Now, this is a longer conversation, because life is a dance, and we need both the ability to “make things happen” while also “allowing things to occur.” Just like we can’t live on the inhale alone, or the exhale, we can’t always “make things happen” in the way we want, nor can we allow our lives to simply float by without giving it direction.

Painting, alongside art journaling, became not only my refuge, but my way of understanding myself, my life and my mission.

I can say now, five years later, I AM my own best friend. I have traveled through every emotion I listed above, and have investigated the root of those emotions. I’ve felt them, written about them, done art around them. I’ve used my journal as a way to deeply explore my inner world as a study of humanity. We ALL have these emotions at some point in life, the question is HOW do we acknowledge them, process them and finally integrate them?

I have found art journaling an amazing way to creatively process our lives, while developing art skills and developing confidence in our own choices.

We are all here to experience this life in human form, and yet our purpose and reasons for being here are unique to each individual. We are not here to live the same lives as our friends or family, and we need a way to discover our uniqueness and VALUE who WE are rather than comparing ourselves to one another.

We need to learn to celebrate ourselves, to learn to write love letters to ourselves. We must learn to BE the solace for ourselves in life, because in the end, everything outside of us will leave – people will move away, they will die, jobs will end, our health will change, our energy level will diminish with age. It is the natural process of life.

So, in the face of finding our own center and our own answers in life, we must find the ways to nurture our inner child, to develop our strong adult, to invite all aspects of ourselves to come to the table to take part in this thing we call life.

For me the art journal has been, and is my way to love myself. I have learned to love my bright shining light, my broken heart, my scared little girl, my powerful warrior. I have learned to love the incredibly creative soul I am, my curious nature, my ability to sit with you in your joy and despair.

I have truly, learned to love myself. As I am.
Without apology.
Without an inflated ego.
Without false humility.

I have learned to simply accept and love who I am, as I am right here and now.