Portrait in Linen

So much for “Guilt-Free.”  I wouldn’t take L’Auberge buffet for a “best-push-up-bra and strappy heels” kinda place, to hear about it, but Josie confirmed–it is.  I don’t own one skirt above the knee, and certainly no bust-plunging tops.  And even if I did, I wouldn’t wear that to lunch.  What does it matter anyway?  Why is everything so complicated?

And why am I even dealing with this?

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Karate class was not easy tonight.  I think my stamina is improving a tiny bit, but there is still so much to be desired.  Had another light-headed episode, but thankfully, it didn’t set in until the very end of class.  This time, I did have to lie down on the bench in the dressing room to recover.

I felt so bad for Sensei Sweet (female instructor who has welcomed me with open arms from the very beginning).  I think I scared her.  She encouraged me to step outside to get some fresh air, but again, shame was paralyzing, so even though I knew it would probably be good for me, I refused and just lay there being miserable, waiting for the icky heat-blech to pass.

And it did.  Drank some lukewarm water I had in my bag, took a deep breath, and took a seat to observe the second class.

“The Second Class”–which is for Intermediate/Advanced karateka–is a dilemma in and of itself.  Some time ago, Senpai KÅ«nane (previously referred to as “Sensei KÅ«nane,” but he instructed me to call him “Senpai” (senior student) in class, and just “KÅ«nane” outside of the dōjō) encouraged me to begin to train through the second class, too.

It was an honor to be invited to participate.  I’m under the impression attending the second class is the thing to do if one would like optimum preparation for the next round of belt testings.  And each class holds something new.  Always something else to learn; I certainly wouldn’t want to miss out on that.  But, I knew without even thinking about it that I wasn’t ready to take part in a second hour of training, and I’m still not.

So, I’ve compromised.  The second class is the perfect opportunity for me to listen, write things down, hear the corrections, watch the way the higher ranking students move, get a solid visual of what to do and what not to do.  It really helps.

When we were preparing for Merrie Monarch year before last and I couldn’t get to Houston or Dallas as often as everyone else, I had to compensate.  The rest of the haumāna got twice as much practice, twice as much correction, had the opportunity to watch and study the senior dancers’ movements, and were able to work on emulating them as closely as possible.

Since I didn’t have the same opportunity, I watched Merrie Monarch DVDs from previous years.  I studied the winning hālaus, watched how the dancers’ feet moved across the floor, studied how they held their shoulders, the angle of their hands, the expressions on their faces.  I studied every single detail and practiced in the mirror, trying to get my body to move exactly like theirs.

And it helped.  Noe (one of the hālau leaders) told me, “You’ve improved by leaps and bounds.”  That was so rewarding, and it proved there are alternate means of honing skill for those of us who can’t practice or train along with everyone else all the time.

Maybe I’ll recognize it when the time has come that I can handle participating in “The Second Class.”  I guess the first sign will be, at the end of an especially challenging class, I don’t feel like I’m about to hurl my cookies all over the place or do a Scarlett O’Hara swoon in the middle of the floor.
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Thinking about Dad so much lately.  I would be afraid of diving into another episode, but I just can’t cry these days.  That bothers me.

Therapist said I need to give myself permission to be angry, to not let go of the logical, justified bad feelings that come along with the conflict, or I risk invalidating my standards.  That’s so easy to do when it seems like life would be easier, return to normal if we just let bygones be bygones and start over.

But I know that’s a ruse and a time bomb.  I know it’s absolutely necessary I accept the anger, own it, then deal with it appropriately.  The thing is, I naturally react to my own anger with guilt for being angry.  I always feel like I must be pitching a fit or blowing things out of proportion or projecting my anger at myself onto someone else.  I never feel justified.  Why is that???  Why has it felt like anger is off-limits to me?  How can a person maintain a healthy psyche with certain emotions entirely omitted???

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Too tired for art or study tonight.  But I need to concentrate on writing anyway.  Will do a couple more proofs of the parenting article I have on the plate, then it’s off to the mom-mag editor.  Hopefully in time for July’s issue.

Also want to put together another article for the online paper.  Last week, it was “Love Affair with Lafayette.”  So far, inspiration has eluded me as to what the next one might entail, but I know it won’t be about politics.

The tree withstands, contracts, expands, deflects dirt-creeping shadow hands.

Though bough-cracking season bleeds the weak to weak, and snaps off leaves of diamond green at the tender vee, storm won’t shake the beam. Moves right through light streams like drips through a fist, fog through a nest.

Black bird, dives and speeds, strikes the cage at 90 degrees.