Are you happy and fulfilled in this moment?
Such was the question I once asked myself nearly every day.
Lately I've strayed away from the question, mainly because I fear the answer.
I fear I won't be satisfied with the reality.
So I stopped asking.
Further,
I fear I've lost the will to blog.
These past few weeks I've felt distracted, disconnected, and losing momentum. I've lost my momentum. Or maybe now is merely the recognition of loss. At any rate, I've simply lost my will to blog.
And the past weeks have been filled with delight: creating gingerbread houses with friends, a tradition my mother began early on in childhood, sharing laughter and late nights talking, drinking wine, decorating Christmas trees and wrapping gifts, walking in the snow at sundown, sipping cups of warm drinks, listening to the musical stylings of Joni Mitchell and the like... There has been delight here. I can see that.
Yet I've felt distracted, disconnected. I've lost my momentum.
And even further,
I don't remember creation being so hard. A process, yes. But not so painstakingly difficult. Though perhaps I've entered this phase of being far too fixated on product, on final destinations, on labels and clearly cut classifications of things. A dear friend recently reminded that I always cared more about the process anyway. It was never about some end or title or well determined place. For me, I've always gained greater insight, richer understanding, and brighter experience from the process itself... from all that leads up to wherever all of this finds itself...eventually.
Was I beginning to see happiness as a destination rather than a process? Or better yet, an experience? And why was I not allowing such delightful, simple pleasures to be fulfilling enough?
....I was working on this post yesterday morning. I'd come back to it over and over again for the past 2 weeks, allowing my backspace button to see more action than anything else. I was working on this post yesterday morning all before having one of the most lovely evenings I've had in a while.
Some good friends of mine have found their way home. Some for the holidays, some for a bit longer... I hope. They've been off traveling, studying in Law School, and publishing research in graduate programs. But they've found their way back. And yesterday I sat on this very couch, drinking wine, laughing til I cried, looking around the room at these dear friends who are back, dear friends with whom I have the awesome privilege to live, and some new friends who've started coming around more often. We played an epic game of charades, the game we've been playing since our youth.
Dee and Tom still have that amazing connection where the fewest of gestures leads to guessing clues you thought nearly impossible. Laura still puts in clues like Mary-Kate and Ashley's sing-along which makes you frustrated and want to die laughing all at once, and Drew and I can still work through Keri's clues like a dream team. It's all still there. And I sat here, playing this game, looking at the faces of these people whom I truly love, thinking, life is pretty wonderful. And in that moment, I was happy and fulfilled. Happiness was not a destination, it was an experience. It was all wrapped up in the process of letting go, of surrendering to life, and embracing the simplest of pleasures with the people who know me best.
And so perhaps it's become more difficult to blog these days.
Perhaps it's become more difficult to create and make work.
But spending quality time with the people who love you, remains just as effortless as one could hope.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
daily reminders
90 percent of the time I have to remind myself to hit the power button after filling the coffee filter. Otherwise the coffee won't brew...obviously. I have to remind myself to move my laundry from the washer to the dryer, and then out of the dryer to fold. I almost always have to remind myself to put my name tag and box cutter back in my purse before heading to work. I remind myself to put the trash out on Monday night, to mail the Verizon bill each month, to not sweat the small stuff, and to eat more vegetables. But the list goes on. I have to remind myself to buy milk, to fill up the gas tank, bring the reusable grocery bags to Trader Joe's, drink more water, call certain friends, pay rent, unplug the Christmas tree lights before bed, return my library books on time (yes, I still check out library books)...
My days seem filled with reminders, though some I accomplish more successfully than others. And it feels like those reminders become more and more grand as I get older, as time passes, as life just gets filled up with stuff.
I remind myself that nothing in life is permanent. Not my job. Not my relationships. Not my passions. Not the way I feel when I wake up in the morning or go to sleep at night. Nothing is permanent.
I remind myself that life truly is too short... that I should take this time to be young, have adventures and experiences, meet new people, put myself out there, embrace the immensity...
I remind myself that I have skills. I have talents and abilities and two college degrees.
I again remind myself that nothing is permanent.
I remind myself to breathe. To take a time out to sip coffee in my pajamas, catch up on DVR, and re-read Pride and Prejudice
for the umpteenth time. I remind myself to smile and to laugh, and to not dwell too deeply on those things that I cannot change.
I remind. And remind. And remind.
Then in a conversation with a sweet friend the other day, who so kindly listened to and validated my feelings, she simply said:
"Just don't do too much reminding. Don't do too much reminding."
And that proved to be just what I needed to hear in that moment.
Perhaps I remind myself too much, rather than just... being. Or living. Or making decisions and taking the rest as it all comes.
So here's to less reminding and more doing.
Though tomorrow when I come to find my coffee isn't brewing, I will undoubtedly have to remind myself to press the ON button.
Hmmm. Maybe that's a metaphor for something.
My days seem filled with reminders, though some I accomplish more successfully than others. And it feels like those reminders become more and more grand as I get older, as time passes, as life just gets filled up with stuff.
I remind myself that nothing in life is permanent. Not my job. Not my relationships. Not my passions. Not the way I feel when I wake up in the morning or go to sleep at night. Nothing is permanent.
I remind myself that life truly is too short... that I should take this time to be young, have adventures and experiences, meet new people, put myself out there, embrace the immensity...
I remind myself that I have skills. I have talents and abilities and two college degrees.
I again remind myself that nothing is permanent.
I remind myself to breathe. To take a time out to sip coffee in my pajamas, catch up on DVR, and re-read Pride and Prejudice
for the umpteenth time. I remind myself to smile and to laugh, and to not dwell too deeply on those things that I cannot change.
I remind. And remind. And remind.
Then in a conversation with a sweet friend the other day, who so kindly listened to and validated my feelings, she simply said:
"Just don't do too much reminding. Don't do too much reminding."
And that proved to be just what I needed to hear in that moment.
Perhaps I remind myself too much, rather than just... being. Or living. Or making decisions and taking the rest as it all comes.
So here's to less reminding and more doing.
Though tomorrow when I come to find my coffee isn't brewing, I will undoubtedly have to remind myself to press the ON button.
Hmmm. Maybe that's a metaphor for something.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
through the window
This is a shot of my attic bedroom window. All I know is Fall is truly here and I've got the proof:
A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked.
-Anais Nin
A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked.
-Anais Nin
Saturday, November 6, 2010
the heart always wins.
She met him at 17. He was 22. They lived in the same little town in Germany. They were madly, hopelessly in love.
For one reason or another they separated. He left Germany, as did she, choosing to study at a university in Illinois. She graduated college, married another man, had four children, later got divorced, and nearly three decades later found herself back in that little town in Germany. And there he was. She met him again. He too was three decades older. And they were still madly, hopelessly in love.
The two are now engaged, living on a yacht in Southern Italy, coming back to the states every few months to visit friends and children.
And so is the story she tells me while checking out at Trader Joe's one Tuesday afternoon. She is a short, cherub like woman with rosy cheeks and the kind of smile that can soothe even the faintest of hearts. She dives into the story of the love of her life when I comment on her German accent. She mentions her hometown in Germany but how she's currently in the states to see her kids who live in Chicago. But friends now live in Annapolis, "So we decided to come get some things for dinner."
"We?" I ask.
"Yes, me and my fiance," she replies.
"But you have four children?" I ask.
"My dear, it is a long story. Romantic, but long," she smiles.
"If you knew me, you'd know that I love a romantic story," I note.
"It's true," my co-worker chimes.
And so she tells the story of the man who held her heart for nearly thirty years.
"I moved away, married another man, had children... and yet I always loved him."
She's nearly teary eyed now. As am I.
She points to a man standing just beyond the window. He's got a sweet head of salt and pepper, thick black glasses, and a brown leather coat. He's gesturing to his wrist to let her know she's taking too much time. He then moves his fingers back and forth to meet his thumb- now she's talking too much. She and I both wave like complete saps lost in the fairytale she's shared. He laughs and shakes his head, then waves back.
A few weeks later the two come back into the store. She greets me with that great smile and an amazing hug. This is the kind of hug your mother gives, or your favorite aunt who spoils you yet doesn't see you nearly enough. He does just the same and I rave about how I've shared their story with all those dear to me. It shines as a glimmering reminder of what love and romance truly are.
He then says, "You are a sweet, sweet, girl."
I help them find some delicious cheeses to pair with the wine they've chosen and send them on their way.
Thirty years later they were still madly, hopelessly in love. And she always knew he was the one.
In a totally different dialogue with a friend today, she posed the question of whether or not it was actually possible for two people to still have those kinds of feelings for one another after such a long period of time. Was she crazy to think that was possible? All I know is what my sweet German friends have told me. And I think he put it best:
"My heart chose her at the very beginning. We lived our lives and spent time apart, but my heart had already chosen. And the heart always wins."
The heart always wins.
For one reason or another they separated. He left Germany, as did she, choosing to study at a university in Illinois. She graduated college, married another man, had four children, later got divorced, and nearly three decades later found herself back in that little town in Germany. And there he was. She met him again. He too was three decades older. And they were still madly, hopelessly in love.
The two are now engaged, living on a yacht in Southern Italy, coming back to the states every few months to visit friends and children.
And so is the story she tells me while checking out at Trader Joe's one Tuesday afternoon. She is a short, cherub like woman with rosy cheeks and the kind of smile that can soothe even the faintest of hearts. She dives into the story of the love of her life when I comment on her German accent. She mentions her hometown in Germany but how she's currently in the states to see her kids who live in Chicago. But friends now live in Annapolis, "So we decided to come get some things for dinner."
"We?" I ask.
"Yes, me and my fiance," she replies.
"But you have four children?" I ask.
"My dear, it is a long story. Romantic, but long," she smiles.
"If you knew me, you'd know that I love a romantic story," I note.
"It's true," my co-worker chimes.
And so she tells the story of the man who held her heart for nearly thirty years.
"I moved away, married another man, had children... and yet I always loved him."
She's nearly teary eyed now. As am I.
She points to a man standing just beyond the window. He's got a sweet head of salt and pepper, thick black glasses, and a brown leather coat. He's gesturing to his wrist to let her know she's taking too much time. He then moves his fingers back and forth to meet his thumb- now she's talking too much. She and I both wave like complete saps lost in the fairytale she's shared. He laughs and shakes his head, then waves back.
A few weeks later the two come back into the store. She greets me with that great smile and an amazing hug. This is the kind of hug your mother gives, or your favorite aunt who spoils you yet doesn't see you nearly enough. He does just the same and I rave about how I've shared their story with all those dear to me. It shines as a glimmering reminder of what love and romance truly are.
He then says, "You are a sweet, sweet, girl."
I help them find some delicious cheeses to pair with the wine they've chosen and send them on their way.
Thirty years later they were still madly, hopelessly in love. And she always knew he was the one.
In a totally different dialogue with a friend today, she posed the question of whether or not it was actually possible for two people to still have those kinds of feelings for one another after such a long period of time. Was she crazy to think that was possible? All I know is what my sweet German friends have told me. And I think he put it best:
"My heart chose her at the very beginning. We lived our lives and spent time apart, but my heart had already chosen. And the heart always wins."
The heart always wins.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
E&P
These are my friends Elayna and Patrick:
Elayna says even though I'm not a teenager, she doesn't think I'm a grown up either. She's trying to come up with a more appropriate word.
Patrick's still deciding who he likes better: the Ramones or the Beatles.
These two still live in a world where the chocolate man sneaks sips of your milk when you're not looking and impromptu dance parties in the living room are always a good idea. The excitement of winning a hand of Uno is one to revel in, and reading the same library book 8 times in a day never gets old. They're also big fans of the playground.
And hanging upside down.
When Elayna says there's buried treasure in the sky, Patrick looks up and says, "How do you know?"
And Elayna simply points up and replies, " X marks the spot."
Elayna says even though I'm not a teenager, she doesn't think I'm a grown up either. She's trying to come up with a more appropriate word.
Patrick's still deciding who he likes better: the Ramones or the Beatles.
These two still live in a world where the chocolate man sneaks sips of your milk when you're not looking and impromptu dance parties in the living room are always a good idea. The excitement of winning a hand of Uno is one to revel in, and reading the same library book 8 times in a day never gets old. They're also big fans of the playground.
And hanging upside down.
When Elayna says there's buried treasure in the sky, Patrick looks up and says, "How do you know?"
And Elayna simply points up and replies, " X marks the spot."
Monday, October 25, 2010
Where thou art, that is home.
September 1st I officially moved to Eastport, Maryland. Did I mention that? Just cruise over the drawbridge from downtown Annapolis into the MRE (Maritime Republic of Eastport) and there you are! Two of my dear friends and I moved into our little green house in the middle of a street:
It's good to be home.
It's good to be home.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Another Check Out Chat
Sunday night and it's raining. My roommate and I are sitting in the living room, lights out, watching Splendor in the Grass... god do I love Natalie Wood. I'm snuggled under a cozy brown blanket, flipping through a Real Simple magazine, relishing in the fact that it's Sunday night and I'm not working.
I then flash to the notion that, shoot, I'm out of toothpaste!
I throw on my rain jacket and run over to Rite Aid. Now, I take dental hygiene very seriously and refuse to be without my beloved blue tube of Crest. Of course I end up filling my basket with a few other things beyond the necessary item, though isn't that the curse of a store like this?
I make my way over to the check out where a young and rather chatty gentleman rings me up. He makes a comment about literally every item I purchase:
Toothpaste: "Ah, is this kind any good? I gotta say I'm a Colgate man myself."
Mouthwash: "I can't use mouthwash, dude. It like, makes my gums burn, you know?"
Toothbrush: "New toothbrush, huh? How often are you supposed to replace these? Like every 3 months? Yea, I don't do that. I think my current toothbrush is going on almost a year."
Me: Yea man, that's gross.
Hairbrush: "Aren't the wooden bristles supposed to better for your hair than the plastic ones? I mean, you have nice hair. Have you always used the wooden kind? I don't think I even own a hairbrush."
Bobby Pins: "So, haven't you always wondered where the name bobby pin even came from? Like, who's Bobby? I guess it's kinda like a safety pin, right?
Me: Well, no. Not really. Different shape. One's for your hair. Yea, no, not really alike at all.
Gum: "Oh you like Orbit? I like it too but I'm more of a peppermint kind of guy, you know?"
Nail polish: "Oh you know this color is really in this season?"
Me: Hah, how do you know that?
Issue of Cosmo Magazine:...
He gets a little red in the face and looks up at me and doesn't say a word.
Hah.
I then flash to the notion that, shoot, I'm out of toothpaste!
I throw on my rain jacket and run over to Rite Aid. Now, I take dental hygiene very seriously and refuse to be without my beloved blue tube of Crest. Of course I end up filling my basket with a few other things beyond the necessary item, though isn't that the curse of a store like this?
I make my way over to the check out where a young and rather chatty gentleman rings me up. He makes a comment about literally every item I purchase:
Toothpaste: "Ah, is this kind any good? I gotta say I'm a Colgate man myself."
Mouthwash: "I can't use mouthwash, dude. It like, makes my gums burn, you know?"
Toothbrush: "New toothbrush, huh? How often are you supposed to replace these? Like every 3 months? Yea, I don't do that. I think my current toothbrush is going on almost a year."
Me: Yea man, that's gross.
Hairbrush: "Aren't the wooden bristles supposed to better for your hair than the plastic ones? I mean, you have nice hair. Have you always used the wooden kind? I don't think I even own a hairbrush."
Bobby Pins: "So, haven't you always wondered where the name bobby pin even came from? Like, who's Bobby? I guess it's kinda like a safety pin, right?
Me: Well, no. Not really. Different shape. One's for your hair. Yea, no, not really alike at all.
Gum: "Oh you like Orbit? I like it too but I'm more of a peppermint kind of guy, you know?"
Nail polish: "Oh you know this color is really in this season?"
Me: Hah, how do you know that?
Issue of Cosmo Magazine:...
He gets a little red in the face and looks up at me and doesn't say a word.
Hah.
Friday, October 1, 2010
something wonderful happens
My friend sent this in an e-mail last night. I woke up this morning in the midst of a 'seeking clarity' moment, and this note from my friend was so perfectly timed. Pretty much speaks for itself:
Only once in your life, I truly believe, you find someone who can completely turn your world around. You tell them things that you’ve never shared with another soul and they absorb everything you say and actually want to hear more. You share hopes for the future, dreams that will never come true, goals that were never achieved and the many disappointments life has thrown at you. When something wonderful happens, you can’t wait to tell them about it, knowing they will share in your excitement. They are not embarrassed to cry with you when you are hurting or laugh with you when you make a fool of yourself. Never do they hurt your feelings or make you feel like you are not good enough, but rather they build you up and show you the things about yourself that make you special and even beautiful. There is never any pressure, jealousy or competition but only a quiet calmness when they are around. You can be yourself and not worry about what they will think of you because they love you for who you are. The things that seem insignificant to most people such as a note, song or walk become invaluable treasures kept safe in your heart to cherish forever. Memories of your childhood come back and are so clear and vivid it’s like being young again. Colors seem brighter and more brilliant. Laughter seems part of daily life where before it was infrequent or didn’t exist at all. A phone call or two during the day helps to get you through a long day’s work and always brings a smile to your face. In their presence, there’s no need for continuous conversation, but you find you’re quite content in just having them nearby. Things that never interested you before become fascinating because you know they are important to this person who is so special to you. You think of this person on every occasion and in everything you do. Simple things bring them to mind like a pale blue sky, gentle wind or even a storm cloud on the horizon. You open your heart knowing that there’s a chance it may be broken one day and in opening your heart, you experience a love and joy that you never dreamed possible. You find that being vulnerable is the only way to allow your heart to feel true pleasure that’s so real it scares you. You find strength in knowing you have a true friend and possibly a soul mate who will remain loyal to the end. Life seems completely different, exciting and worthwhile. Your only hope and security is in knowing that they are a part of your life.
— Bob Marley
For all you hopeless romantics out there, whether you've found your person yet or not...
Only once in your life, I truly believe, you find someone who can completely turn your world around. You tell them things that you’ve never shared with another soul and they absorb everything you say and actually want to hear more. You share hopes for the future, dreams that will never come true, goals that were never achieved and the many disappointments life has thrown at you. When something wonderful happens, you can’t wait to tell them about it, knowing they will share in your excitement. They are not embarrassed to cry with you when you are hurting or laugh with you when you make a fool of yourself. Never do they hurt your feelings or make you feel like you are not good enough, but rather they build you up and show you the things about yourself that make you special and even beautiful. There is never any pressure, jealousy or competition but only a quiet calmness when they are around. You can be yourself and not worry about what they will think of you because they love you for who you are. The things that seem insignificant to most people such as a note, song or walk become invaluable treasures kept safe in your heart to cherish forever. Memories of your childhood come back and are so clear and vivid it’s like being young again. Colors seem brighter and more brilliant. Laughter seems part of daily life where before it was infrequent or didn’t exist at all. A phone call or two during the day helps to get you through a long day’s work and always brings a smile to your face. In their presence, there’s no need for continuous conversation, but you find you’re quite content in just having them nearby. Things that never interested you before become fascinating because you know they are important to this person who is so special to you. You think of this person on every occasion and in everything you do. Simple things bring them to mind like a pale blue sky, gentle wind or even a storm cloud on the horizon. You open your heart knowing that there’s a chance it may be broken one day and in opening your heart, you experience a love and joy that you never dreamed possible. You find that being vulnerable is the only way to allow your heart to feel true pleasure that’s so real it scares you. You find strength in knowing you have a true friend and possibly a soul mate who will remain loyal to the end. Life seems completely different, exciting and worthwhile. Your only hope and security is in knowing that they are a part of your life.
— Bob Marley
For all you hopeless romantics out there, whether you've found your person yet or not...
Sunday, September 26, 2010
So let your hair down now
So just have fun, it's far enough
Everybody needs to sleep at night, everybody needs a crutch
But couldn't good, be good enough?
Cause nothin' ever doesn't change but nothin' changes much
Thursday, September 23, 2010
the heart wants.
I went shopping today for a birthday present for my mother.
I perused through racks of beautiful flowing dresses, soft knitted hats, water colored scarves, and quirky cereal bowls. Hanging over a shelf filled with kitchen dish towels and retro aprons was a delightful fixture made of tree branches and multi colored feathers. One wall adorned with funky mirrors and a black dial up telephone set itself over piles of toasty sweaters and thick leather belts.
I ran my palm over stacks of eccentric prints of classic lit: copies of Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre were bound in bright blues and greens with yellow and pink stitching. I coveted those books. I stood in front of them for a good 5 minutes merely smiling. How silly I thought, I'm standing in a clothing store coveting books. And then a fellow shopper approached me and said:
The heart wants what the heart wants.
Apparently her heart wanted jeans; she must have been struggling with at least 10 pairs of them. I smiled and quietly laughed.
Story of my life, I thought. The heart wants what the heart wants.
Only sometimes, you can't have it.
So instead, you buy a dress. And you buy your mom a scarf. You buy a knitted hat in the hopes that Autumn will soon come. You remember the stack of books on your bookshelf, and that what you're actually looking for, well, you won't find in a store like this.
These are the things we buy to distract ourselves from the realities of what the heart actually wants.
Because sometimes, the heart wants what it just can't have.
And a few more dresses and scarves and retro aprons later, maybe you'll be able to let it go. Or, you'll just end up with a closet full of stuff.
I perused through racks of beautiful flowing dresses, soft knitted hats, water colored scarves, and quirky cereal bowls. Hanging over a shelf filled with kitchen dish towels and retro aprons was a delightful fixture made of tree branches and multi colored feathers. One wall adorned with funky mirrors and a black dial up telephone set itself over piles of toasty sweaters and thick leather belts.
I ran my palm over stacks of eccentric prints of classic lit: copies of Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre were bound in bright blues and greens with yellow and pink stitching. I coveted those books. I stood in front of them for a good 5 minutes merely smiling. How silly I thought, I'm standing in a clothing store coveting books. And then a fellow shopper approached me and said:
The heart wants what the heart wants.
Apparently her heart wanted jeans; she must have been struggling with at least 10 pairs of them. I smiled and quietly laughed.
Story of my life, I thought. The heart wants what the heart wants.
Only sometimes, you can't have it.
So instead, you buy a dress. And you buy your mom a scarf. You buy a knitted hat in the hopes that Autumn will soon come. You remember the stack of books on your bookshelf, and that what you're actually looking for, well, you won't find in a store like this.
These are the things we buy to distract ourselves from the realities of what the heart actually wants.
Because sometimes, the heart wants what it just can't have.
And a few more dresses and scarves and retro aprons later, maybe you'll be able to let it go. Or, you'll just end up with a closet full of stuff.
Monday, September 20, 2010
one fish, two fish
"The little fish never live where the big fish live."
That's what he said to me as we made our way out into the bay. We made our way out on a crisp, clear, and deliciously blue day with only a few rough waves in our midst. The skiff was a bright golden yellow. I sat on the left corner while he steered us to the little fish. He steered the engine with a long extension he'd fashioned out of a white PVC tube. He smoked a cigarette and shot that Popeye like smile out behind black sunglasses and a frayed Yankees hat. He was the kind of guy one immediately deemed as tough. Though deep down there was nothing but a great softy... a giant teddy bear. And this man, who rarely went fishing with anyone, was fishing with me.
I closed my eyes feeling the cool wind toss my hair, the sun sinking into my skin with its delightful warmth. He pointed toward the lighthouse at Thomas Point and I smiled. I've kind of got a thing for lighthouses, though I didn't tell him that. And all I could think in that beautiful moment was how lucky I was to be there in the midst of the blue immensity with a sweet, dear friend, attempting to fish (something I haven't done since childhood) all on a Monday afternoon. How lucky was I to be in the thick of it. And then I thought, how funny. Once upon a time I feared the immensity... being in the midst of the vast expanse... the unknown. Yet there I was, completely and utterly happy. And ready to fish.
The blood worms are perhaps the worst part. He pulled one out of a plastic bag on top of a big red cooler. With a small knife he sliced him in half coloring the white lid a blood red.
"Ah this one's a bleeder," he said.
He then baited my hook and said, "Are you watching? Cause this is the only hook I'm gonna bait for you."
I smiled. Nodded. And secretly wished I wouldn't catch anything merely so that I wouldn't have to cut those poor little worms into pieces. But I did catch those little fish and sure enough, cut those blood worms up, threading my hooks and casting away.
I kept flashing on memories of fishing with my grandfather. Truth be told the memories are vague and sparse. All I know is that I loved the ritual of heading to the pond by my grandparent's house to fish. I loved the quiet, the waiting, and not having to talk. So today I had to keep reminding myself to stop talking, to stop asking questions as I was unsure of how he preferred to pass the time in between catches. Suffice it to say, one can learn a lot about a person while standing in a boat with a baited line in the water.
We finally filled our bucket with enough little fish and ventured back across the water to where the big fish live. Several hours later, maneuvering around this little lighthouse, we'd caught nothing. Well, no fish. He'd managed to catch a Seagull. I looked on in part laughter, part horror, simply hoping he wouldn't have to leave that bird with a hook in his beak. Luckily no, but seriously? A Seagull? Apparently luck was not on our side. Or, the fish just weren't hungry.
We headed back to shore moving into the current. I made my way out of the skiff completely drenched, my fingers clammy and stiff, sunburned face, and feeling the slightest sense of defeat. I palmed over the slice in my left hand from a hook that had missed my little fish and caught my flesh instead. I then sat in the car, he turned on the heat, and watched through the rear view mirror as he latched the golden boat back onto the van. And I thought, so this is fishing, huh? Oddly enough, I loved it.
Like a complete nerd I brought up The Old Man and the Sea, thinking he might appreciate the beloved Hemingway novella. I even made reference to Thoreau. He hadn't read either. But this afternoon was meant to be more simple than that. In a way, a meditation of sorts. And despite the lack of fish, it was a truly beautiful day. And I felt content just being near him. Just standing next to each other, not saying a word, not catching a thing. I couldn't help but feel like now we better understood each other, in some small way... even though he can't tell me why he loves fishing. And after catching a Seagull, I'm sure he's still trying to figure that one out.
That's what he said to me as we made our way out into the bay. We made our way out on a crisp, clear, and deliciously blue day with only a few rough waves in our midst. The skiff was a bright golden yellow. I sat on the left corner while he steered us to the little fish. He steered the engine with a long extension he'd fashioned out of a white PVC tube. He smoked a cigarette and shot that Popeye like smile out behind black sunglasses and a frayed Yankees hat. He was the kind of guy one immediately deemed as tough. Though deep down there was nothing but a great softy... a giant teddy bear. And this man, who rarely went fishing with anyone, was fishing with me.
I closed my eyes feeling the cool wind toss my hair, the sun sinking into my skin with its delightful warmth. He pointed toward the lighthouse at Thomas Point and I smiled. I've kind of got a thing for lighthouses, though I didn't tell him that. And all I could think in that beautiful moment was how lucky I was to be there in the midst of the blue immensity with a sweet, dear friend, attempting to fish (something I haven't done since childhood) all on a Monday afternoon. How lucky was I to be in the thick of it. And then I thought, how funny. Once upon a time I feared the immensity... being in the midst of the vast expanse... the unknown. Yet there I was, completely and utterly happy. And ready to fish.
The blood worms are perhaps the worst part. He pulled one out of a plastic bag on top of a big red cooler. With a small knife he sliced him in half coloring the white lid a blood red.
"Ah this one's a bleeder," he said.
He then baited my hook and said, "Are you watching? Cause this is the only hook I'm gonna bait for you."
I smiled. Nodded. And secretly wished I wouldn't catch anything merely so that I wouldn't have to cut those poor little worms into pieces. But I did catch those little fish and sure enough, cut those blood worms up, threading my hooks and casting away.
I kept flashing on memories of fishing with my grandfather. Truth be told the memories are vague and sparse. All I know is that I loved the ritual of heading to the pond by my grandparent's house to fish. I loved the quiet, the waiting, and not having to talk. So today I had to keep reminding myself to stop talking, to stop asking questions as I was unsure of how he preferred to pass the time in between catches. Suffice it to say, one can learn a lot about a person while standing in a boat with a baited line in the water.
We finally filled our bucket with enough little fish and ventured back across the water to where the big fish live. Several hours later, maneuvering around this little lighthouse, we'd caught nothing. Well, no fish. He'd managed to catch a Seagull. I looked on in part laughter, part horror, simply hoping he wouldn't have to leave that bird with a hook in his beak. Luckily no, but seriously? A Seagull? Apparently luck was not on our side. Or, the fish just weren't hungry.
We headed back to shore moving into the current. I made my way out of the skiff completely drenched, my fingers clammy and stiff, sunburned face, and feeling the slightest sense of defeat. I palmed over the slice in my left hand from a hook that had missed my little fish and caught my flesh instead. I then sat in the car, he turned on the heat, and watched through the rear view mirror as he latched the golden boat back onto the van. And I thought, so this is fishing, huh? Oddly enough, I loved it.
Like a complete nerd I brought up The Old Man and the Sea, thinking he might appreciate the beloved Hemingway novella. I even made reference to Thoreau. He hadn't read either. But this afternoon was meant to be more simple than that. In a way, a meditation of sorts. And despite the lack of fish, it was a truly beautiful day. And I felt content just being near him. Just standing next to each other, not saying a word, not catching a thing. I couldn't help but feel like now we better understood each other, in some small way... even though he can't tell me why he loves fishing. And after catching a Seagull, I'm sure he's still trying to figure that one out.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
the comfort of worn pages
In college it was the 6th floor of McKeldin Library. It was a large blue chair and table combination nestled back by a window behind stacks of musty periodicals. There’s something about the smell of antiquated pages. There’s something about the smell of old books.
These days it seems to be whatever book store I can make my way into on a sunny Saturday afternoon or just before closing time on a Sunday night. It's Barnes & Noble and Borders and The Annapolis Bookstore on Maryland Ave which has a delightful old school charm; you walk into the place and feel like you're walking through someones home. And that's the thing about books. That's what I hold so dear. On any given day, or in any mood- be it happiness, melancholy, frustration or stress, I can surround myself with books and feel at peace. I surround myself with those stacks of fiction and poetry and prose and I feel at home.
I suppose then it should be no surprise that my bedroom is a mini library of its own, each writer and his or her work carefully placed. Robert Frost and E.E. Cummings live next to my bed. We get along well late at night just before falling to sleep, and early in the morning just as sunlight begins peering through and I'm still slightly hazy from last night's dream. With them I dive into realms of romanticism and love, and an understanding of our humanity.
Elizabeth Gilbert settles on my desk along with the likes of Jonathan Safran Foer, Yann Martel, Malcolm Gladwell, and Agar Nafisi. Among other contemporaries is an edition of Taschen's Art Now and my favorite dictionary: an old red Webster's with gold lettering on the cover. Eat, Pray, Love stands at the center of the line of books only to be capped by staples of my childhood: Harold and the Purple Crayon at one end, and The Many Mice of Mr. Bryce on the other. I sit here, writing, making notes in my planner, or merely gazing out the window. I breathe easy knowing that before me are notions of hope, adventure, motivation, and love.
A large wooden trunk sits in the corner of my room housing an array of classic literature. A line of Austen, Hemingway, Shakespeare, Kerouac, Dickens and others stand proudly in the background of a collection of photographs of family and friends. I like to think subconsciously I wanted all of the people I love to live next to the words of all the great literary talent that's essentially shaped my life. I wanted the images of their eyes and smiles and intimacy to be supported by the delicious syntax and rhetoric of the greats ( at least the ones I deem 'great').
Tonight I found myself in Barnes & Noble, perhaps because I was feeling slightly blue and pensive and quiet. Not for any good reason really; maybe it was the let down after an eventful evening filled with cold drinks and home made treats and small talk with interesting folks. For whatever reason, there it was: the need to find some peace, the need to be surrounded. So there I was, weaving my way in and out of the Fiction and Literature section, perusing Art, taking quick detours through Cooking and Sports, all before ending in Poetry.
I woke up this morning and read E.E. Cummings. I think it best when he's read aloud and preferably to someone. Luckily a friend had spent the night at our house and indulged me in this beloved practice. And so we read. And so it seemed that he found Cummings to be far less romantic and sweet than I. But rather, saw him as depressing, tragic, and death obsessed. I still maintain that he is not quite as sad as one might think, yet while looking through the stacks of poetry I thought I'd give someone else a shot at resting near my bed for a while. Dickinson, Ginsberg, Whitman, and Frost have all had their time there as well. So tonight, I knelt down, closed my eyes, and picked William Butler Yeats off the shelf. Now I've always been a fan of his work, especially after taking a delightful poetry course my junior year of college in which my Professor made his love for Yeats quite clear.
I opened the collection of poems to "The Wild Swans at Coole," a favorite of mine. Particularly this part:
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
Tomorrow I will wake up and thumb through the pages of Yeats. I will attempt to finish the book I'm currently reading( Racing in the Rain, as recommended by my father), and rifle through the pages of Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, which gets a good read every Autumn. I'll toss a book in my purse, a Rorie Gilmore like ritual of mine, and perhaps finally get around to reading one of the newer selections I've lent to my roommate. It will be a day filled with books, as they all seem to be.
Because like I said, when there are books, I'm home. And there is nothing like the familiarity of home: its sounds and smells and memory. There's something about the smell of antiquated pages, even new ones. There's just something about books.
These days it seems to be whatever book store I can make my way into on a sunny Saturday afternoon or just before closing time on a Sunday night. It's Barnes & Noble and Borders and The Annapolis Bookstore on Maryland Ave which has a delightful old school charm; you walk into the place and feel like you're walking through someones home. And that's the thing about books. That's what I hold so dear. On any given day, or in any mood- be it happiness, melancholy, frustration or stress, I can surround myself with books and feel at peace. I surround myself with those stacks of fiction and poetry and prose and I feel at home.
I suppose then it should be no surprise that my bedroom is a mini library of its own, each writer and his or her work carefully placed. Robert Frost and E.E. Cummings live next to my bed. We get along well late at night just before falling to sleep, and early in the morning just as sunlight begins peering through and I'm still slightly hazy from last night's dream. With them I dive into realms of romanticism and love, and an understanding of our humanity.
Elizabeth Gilbert settles on my desk along with the likes of Jonathan Safran Foer, Yann Martel, Malcolm Gladwell, and Agar Nafisi. Among other contemporaries is an edition of Taschen's Art Now and my favorite dictionary: an old red Webster's with gold lettering on the cover. Eat, Pray, Love stands at the center of the line of books only to be capped by staples of my childhood: Harold and the Purple Crayon at one end, and The Many Mice of Mr. Bryce on the other. I sit here, writing, making notes in my planner, or merely gazing out the window. I breathe easy knowing that before me are notions of hope, adventure, motivation, and love.
A large wooden trunk sits in the corner of my room housing an array of classic literature. A line of Austen, Hemingway, Shakespeare, Kerouac, Dickens and others stand proudly in the background of a collection of photographs of family and friends. I like to think subconsciously I wanted all of the people I love to live next to the words of all the great literary talent that's essentially shaped my life. I wanted the images of their eyes and smiles and intimacy to be supported by the delicious syntax and rhetoric of the greats ( at least the ones I deem 'great').
Tonight I found myself in Barnes & Noble, perhaps because I was feeling slightly blue and pensive and quiet. Not for any good reason really; maybe it was the let down after an eventful evening filled with cold drinks and home made treats and small talk with interesting folks. For whatever reason, there it was: the need to find some peace, the need to be surrounded. So there I was, weaving my way in and out of the Fiction and Literature section, perusing Art, taking quick detours through Cooking and Sports, all before ending in Poetry.
I woke up this morning and read E.E. Cummings. I think it best when he's read aloud and preferably to someone. Luckily a friend had spent the night at our house and indulged me in this beloved practice. And so we read. And so it seemed that he found Cummings to be far less romantic and sweet than I. But rather, saw him as depressing, tragic, and death obsessed. I still maintain that he is not quite as sad as one might think, yet while looking through the stacks of poetry I thought I'd give someone else a shot at resting near my bed for a while. Dickinson, Ginsberg, Whitman, and Frost have all had their time there as well. So tonight, I knelt down, closed my eyes, and picked William Butler Yeats off the shelf. Now I've always been a fan of his work, especially after taking a delightful poetry course my junior year of college in which my Professor made his love for Yeats quite clear.
I opened the collection of poems to "The Wild Swans at Coole," a favorite of mine. Particularly this part:
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
Tomorrow I will wake up and thumb through the pages of Yeats. I will attempt to finish the book I'm currently reading( Racing in the Rain, as recommended by my father), and rifle through the pages of Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, which gets a good read every Autumn. I'll toss a book in my purse, a Rorie Gilmore like ritual of mine, and perhaps finally get around to reading one of the newer selections I've lent to my roommate. It will be a day filled with books, as they all seem to be.
Because like I said, when there are books, I'm home. And there is nothing like the familiarity of home: its sounds and smells and memory. There's something about the smell of antiquated pages, even new ones. There's just something about books.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
a little human contact
Richard has an application on his I-Phone telling him what kind of fish is safe to purchase, which ones to avoid due to high levels of mercury, that it's best to get them 'young' and where they should all be coming from. Apparently Thailand is not the best option.
Richard is 71. A bachelor. He wears carefully selected plaid button ups and khaki pants with his boating shoes...sock less. He lives on a boat and is the epitome of an Annapolitan, except for the fact that he looks you right in the eye when talking to you. Not to mention he speaks to you as if you're his oldest and most dear friend. He smiles displaying a sweet set of pearly whites which peer out between a salt and pepper beard.
And around 9pm on a Tuesday night, Richard and I stand next to a row of frozen fish packages discussing our love of Sockeye Salmon, how the checkers at Giant feel robotic, the beauty of Fall, and how sometimes you just want to talk to someone and share a little human contact.
He makes me smile while commenting on the classic nature of a name like Elizabeth. His first wife was 'Liz the Whiz.'
And as we shake hands and part he thanks me for simply taking the time to talk:
"It seems so rare these days that we should take a moment to stop and share with one another, even if about nothing at all. But sometimes, you just need to."
Sometimes you just need to.
Richard is 71. A bachelor. He wears carefully selected plaid button ups and khaki pants with his boating shoes...sock less. He lives on a boat and is the epitome of an Annapolitan, except for the fact that he looks you right in the eye when talking to you. Not to mention he speaks to you as if you're his oldest and most dear friend. He smiles displaying a sweet set of pearly whites which peer out between a salt and pepper beard.
And around 9pm on a Tuesday night, Richard and I stand next to a row of frozen fish packages discussing our love of Sockeye Salmon, how the checkers at Giant feel robotic, the beauty of Fall, and how sometimes you just want to talk to someone and share a little human contact.
He makes me smile while commenting on the classic nature of a name like Elizabeth. His first wife was 'Liz the Whiz.'
And as we shake hands and part he thanks me for simply taking the time to talk:
"It seems so rare these days that we should take a moment to stop and share with one another, even if about nothing at all. But sometimes, you just need to."
Sometimes you just need to.
Friday, September 10, 2010
another apple to slice into pieces
Andrew Wyeth once said he preferred the seasons of Autumn and Winter- "when you feel the bone structure of the landscape- the loneliness of it..." And I got to thinking about what waits beneath a season like Autumn as we attempt, so desperately, to listen to silence. I love Autumn. I suppose it is my favorite season. Autumn on the East Coast is spelled out in apple orchards, the first pumpkin bread loaf, leaves of burnt orange and crimson, and a crispness and vitality of the air. Yet, underneath there rests this sweet and solemn sadness... as if all that is is change- a perpetual transitioning.
And I thought, how odd, that this should be my most beloved season when I so dislike focusing on change and forward momentum. I prefer living in the moment and a focus that resides so purely and intently in the here and now. But in Fall, it seems as though our here and now and then and there are one and the same. What to make of that?
And then there's this question of mortality. You breathe in the fervor of such crisp, deliciously chilled air- that campfire caramel apple scent. Yet, leaves descend and summer bitterly dies beneath them. We are that much more aware of our mortality. This very real, simple fact that nothing lasts... as Frost says, nothing gold can stay... echoes.
A dear friend recently wrote me a letter discussing this idea of mortality. She herself has become a witness to loved ones in the face of their own impermanence. She is now in a place of recognizing this sense that we all live and grow old and become incapable of living how we once did... and then it simply all comes to an end. And so cyclically we each bear witness to one an other's humanness- the very certainty that we shall fade like changing leaves falling off of trees to soon rest beneath snow and disappear.
Though for whatever reason, I find myself drawn to Autumn. There is something sobering and beautiful and quietly sad about this change in time made so visible in colors and smells and sensations. I feel like George Eliot who said:
"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns."
Friday, September 3, 2010
The Drugstore
A dear friend sent me a link today from The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor, a favorite show on NPR. Today's link featured the poem Drugstore by Carl Dennis. As my friend said, it just struck a chord. And so, as she shared it with me, so shall I, with you.
Drugstore
Don't be ashamed that your parents
Didn't happen to meet at an art exhibit
Or at a protest against a foreign policy
Based on fear of negotiation,
But in an aisle of a discount drugstore,
Near the antihistamine section,
Seeking relief from the common cold.
You ought to be proud that even there,
Amid coughs and sneezes,
They were able to peer beneath
The veil of pointless happenstance.
Here is someone, each thought,
Able to laugh at the indignities
That flesh is heir to. Here
Is a person one might care about.
Not love at first sight, but the will
To be ready to endorse the feeling
Should it arise. Had they waited
For settings more promising,
You wouldn't be here,
Wishing things were different.
Why not delight at how young they were
When they made the most of their chances,
How young still, a little later,
When they bought a double plot
At the cemetery. Look at you,
Twice as old now as they were
When they made arrangements,
And still you're thinking of moving on,
Of finding a town with a climate
Friendlier to your many talents.
Don't be ashamed of the homely thought
That whatever you might do elsewhere,
In the time remaining, you might do here
If you can resolve, at last, to pay attention.
Drugstore
Don't be ashamed that your parents
Didn't happen to meet at an art exhibit
Or at a protest against a foreign policy
Based on fear of negotiation,
But in an aisle of a discount drugstore,
Near the antihistamine section,
Seeking relief from the common cold.
You ought to be proud that even there,
Amid coughs and sneezes,
They were able to peer beneath
The veil of pointless happenstance.
Here is someone, each thought,
Able to laugh at the indignities
That flesh is heir to. Here
Is a person one might care about.
Not love at first sight, but the will
To be ready to endorse the feeling
Should it arise. Had they waited
For settings more promising,
You wouldn't be here,
Wishing things were different.
Why not delight at how young they were
When they made the most of their chances,
How young still, a little later,
When they bought a double plot
At the cemetery. Look at you,
Twice as old now as they were
When they made arrangements,
And still you're thinking of moving on,
Of finding a town with a climate
Friendlier to your many talents.
Don't be ashamed of the homely thought
That whatever you might do elsewhere,
In the time remaining, you might do here
If you can resolve, at last, to pay attention.
Monday, August 30, 2010
from a dream.
they are of threaded glass.
those people.
like paper dolls stitched with red, only drop them and they'll shatter.
break their hearts and you break the whole silhouette.
like champagne glasses in a lush's hands
and suddenly those gingerbread friends are floating
in a bubbly stream of orange juice.
i never got the memo.
the photocopied version of that popular radio song.
the one with the chorus you could never remember
and the one with the line about letting me go
and letting me down.
your face is dripping down the counter
and her arms disintegrate onto a cold tile floor.
the spool unravels like loose buttons on a thrift store shirt.
those people.
i'm watching them disappear.
those paper doll cut outs of a life
of a memory
they are of threaded glass.
those people.
like paper dolls stitched with red, only drop them and they'll shatter.
break their hearts and you break the whole silhouette.
like champagne glasses in a lush's hands
and suddenly those gingerbread friends are floating
in a bubbly stream of orange juice.
i never got the memo.
the photocopied version of that popular radio song.
the one with the chorus you could never remember
and the one with the line about letting me go
and letting me down.
your face is dripping down the counter
and her arms disintegrate onto a cold tile floor.
the spool unravels like loose buttons on a thrift store shirt.
those people.
i'm watching them disappear.
those paper doll cut outs of a life
of a memory
they are of threaded glass.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Check Out Chat
Friday afternoon was my first day back at Trader Joe's, the oh so spirited grocery store where I work part time. A woman with white hair, red lips, and dressed to the nines came through my line. I greeted her like any other customer saying:
"Hi! How are you today?"
She replied:
"Well, I'm happy, healthy, and still hopelessly in love."
I stopped scanning a bag of baby carrots in that moment, smiled, looked up at her and said:
"And what more could you ask for?"
She smiled back: "Exactly."
Now I remember why I love working at this store.
"Hi! How are you today?"
She replied:
"Well, I'm happy, healthy, and still hopelessly in love."
I stopped scanning a bag of baby carrots in that moment, smiled, looked up at her and said:
"And what more could you ask for?"
She smiled back: "Exactly."
Now I remember why I love working at this store.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
like a bird in flight
Seems like this lesson I keep learning over and over the more I live, the more I grow up, that endings are usually sad. Beginnings are comprised of both excitement and fear. But it's the middles that are the best parts. That's the good stuff, the moments to remember.
This is what I was writing when:
I noticed a little girl in a pink dress with white flowers making a puppet out of her purple polka dotted sock, which reminded me that I forgot to put socks in my carry on. I always get cold feet when I fly- literally. And as I watched her playfully swinging back and forth in a black leather seat, it was all I could do to park my divine sadness right next to her innocent happiness and just sit. I don't think I'd ever been so sad to step on an airplane in my entire life. I'd stepped on them feeling happiness, even fear, but not such supreme sadness.
It's like getting caught in gnarly surf, a giant wave engulfing you. It sees and claims you for no good reason at all except to violently enclose you in deep blue salt.
Pulling you down.
Stealing your breath.
Smacking you in the face.
It's all you can do to finally emerge toward light, gasping for air, eyes burning, completely drenched.
And so it was at gate 18, sitting in the terminal watching this little girl that I gasped for air, for anything to hold onto to just feel better.
FUTILE.
I found myself seated next to a man on the airplane with a severe fear of flying. Row 18. His long yet slightly knobby knees rebounded off of mine. He took carefully calculated breaths. He crossed himself several times before resting his face in his hands whispering to himself. He eventually turned to me with these sad puppy dog eyes and the voice of a young boy on a first date: "Do you fly often? What's the worst part?"
Needless to say, I spent the better majority of the next 5 hours talking to this man if for nothing more than to settle his fears and refocus his attention.
This man is from Pittsburgh. A landscaper. A tall, built, scruffy looking type. We talked about our fears, our hopes, our plans- like his, to move to Sacramento and begin a new chapter in his life. He is sweet, funny, and a gentleman. He turns off the air when seeing I'm cold and offers his shoulder if I should later need a head rest. We talk about playing the lottery, 2012 and Aztec prophecies, traveling abroad, and taking grand leaps of faith.
I wish I had asked him his name.
We're both fading in and out of sleep, our heads tilted toward one another, our shoulders touching. I don't know if he noticed. Eventually our forearms and the tips of our fingers are touching. I can feel the heat of his skin through my shirt and breathe contently in sharing this tiny moment, feeling like maybe we both just needed a little human contact. Maybe we both just needed to not feel so alone. We both wake up smiling. He hands my trash to the flight attendant and makes sure I'm warm enough as we make our final descent.
I smile as we land declaring, "You made it!"
He smiles, "Nah, we made it."
He leans over to look out the window and I breath him in. He smells of tobacco and peppermint and I am reminded of that scene from "The Parent Trap" where she makes a memory of her grandfather who smells this way. I desperately wanted to make a memory of him. I wanted to frame his face with my hands and take a mental picture. I wanted to hold onto this stranger and his kindness, his smile, his piercing green eyes and the intricate tattoo making a sleeve on his right arm. I wanted to hold onto his doubly pierced ears, his laugh, and the warmth of his skin... how he genuinely wanted to hear about playing ukulele, travels through Europe, surfing in Hawaii, and taking risks in life- at any time.
It was like opening little windows into one an other's souls for that brief moment in time, cruising above the clouds with a full moon in sight. We stepped off the plane and back into our own separate lives, but not before exchanging final words of luck and gratitude for sharing the flight, for making it out alive, and for keeping each other warm.
I wish I had asked him his name.
But now every time I think of Pittsburgh I will think of my landscaping friend. I will send him love and light and then drop it and move on, like Liz Gilbert says. But, Mr. Pittsburgh, if you're out there somewhere reading this, drop me a line. I'm thinking maybe we should be friends.
Now, can we also, just for a moment, talk about flight attendants and this whole routine they perform? Noting the information card in the seat back pocket? Pointing toward the exits? Demonstrating how to fasten my seat belt? It's like some strange little dance. A funny ritual of sorts really providing little to no actual assistance. How odd.
And can I also just mention how you have to pay for everything on flights now? Luggage. Food. Headphones. You can't even get a blanket for free. But maybe that's okay...perhaps it leads to more impromptu snuggling with sweet, scruffy strangers. And really, I'm okay with that.
This is what I was writing when:
I noticed a little girl in a pink dress with white flowers making a puppet out of her purple polka dotted sock, which reminded me that I forgot to put socks in my carry on. I always get cold feet when I fly- literally. And as I watched her playfully swinging back and forth in a black leather seat, it was all I could do to park my divine sadness right next to her innocent happiness and just sit. I don't think I'd ever been so sad to step on an airplane in my entire life. I'd stepped on them feeling happiness, even fear, but not such supreme sadness.
It's like getting caught in gnarly surf, a giant wave engulfing you. It sees and claims you for no good reason at all except to violently enclose you in deep blue salt.
Pulling you down.
Stealing your breath.
Smacking you in the face.
It's all you can do to finally emerge toward light, gasping for air, eyes burning, completely drenched.
And so it was at gate 18, sitting in the terminal watching this little girl that I gasped for air, for anything to hold onto to just feel better.
FUTILE.
I found myself seated next to a man on the airplane with a severe fear of flying. Row 18. His long yet slightly knobby knees rebounded off of mine. He took carefully calculated breaths. He crossed himself several times before resting his face in his hands whispering to himself. He eventually turned to me with these sad puppy dog eyes and the voice of a young boy on a first date: "Do you fly often? What's the worst part?"
Needless to say, I spent the better majority of the next 5 hours talking to this man if for nothing more than to settle his fears and refocus his attention.
This man is from Pittsburgh. A landscaper. A tall, built, scruffy looking type. We talked about our fears, our hopes, our plans- like his, to move to Sacramento and begin a new chapter in his life. He is sweet, funny, and a gentleman. He turns off the air when seeing I'm cold and offers his shoulder if I should later need a head rest. We talk about playing the lottery, 2012 and Aztec prophecies, traveling abroad, and taking grand leaps of faith.
I wish I had asked him his name.
We're both fading in and out of sleep, our heads tilted toward one another, our shoulders touching. I don't know if he noticed. Eventually our forearms and the tips of our fingers are touching. I can feel the heat of his skin through my shirt and breathe contently in sharing this tiny moment, feeling like maybe we both just needed a little human contact. Maybe we both just needed to not feel so alone. We both wake up smiling. He hands my trash to the flight attendant and makes sure I'm warm enough as we make our final descent.
I smile as we land declaring, "You made it!"
He smiles, "Nah, we made it."
He leans over to look out the window and I breath him in. He smells of tobacco and peppermint and I am reminded of that scene from "The Parent Trap" where she makes a memory of her grandfather who smells this way. I desperately wanted to make a memory of him. I wanted to frame his face with my hands and take a mental picture. I wanted to hold onto this stranger and his kindness, his smile, his piercing green eyes and the intricate tattoo making a sleeve on his right arm. I wanted to hold onto his doubly pierced ears, his laugh, and the warmth of his skin... how he genuinely wanted to hear about playing ukulele, travels through Europe, surfing in Hawaii, and taking risks in life- at any time.
It was like opening little windows into one an other's souls for that brief moment in time, cruising above the clouds with a full moon in sight. We stepped off the plane and back into our own separate lives, but not before exchanging final words of luck and gratitude for sharing the flight, for making it out alive, and for keeping each other warm.
I wish I had asked him his name.
But now every time I think of Pittsburgh I will think of my landscaping friend. I will send him love and light and then drop it and move on, like Liz Gilbert says. But, Mr. Pittsburgh, if you're out there somewhere reading this, drop me a line. I'm thinking maybe we should be friends.
Now, can we also, just for a moment, talk about flight attendants and this whole routine they perform? Noting the information card in the seat back pocket? Pointing toward the exits? Demonstrating how to fasten my seat belt? It's like some strange little dance. A funny ritual of sorts really providing little to no actual assistance. How odd.
And can I also just mention how you have to pay for everything on flights now? Luggage. Food. Headphones. You can't even get a blanket for free. But maybe that's okay...perhaps it leads to more impromptu snuggling with sweet, scruffy strangers. And really, I'm okay with that.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
the syntax of things
I am told that once upon a time there was such a thing as courtship- that men, at one time in history, actively participated in the pursuit of women. They made efforts to get to know a woman, treat her with kindness and respect, cultivating a relationship with sound foundation even before any romantic intimacy ensued. I am told that such behavior did in fact exist and I understand that once upon a time women were truly valued in the realms of romantic relationships. We were seen as sweet, endearing, beautiful creatures worthy of affection, attention, respect, and effort. Women were courted.
Granted, I can appreciate that such practices and traditions are seen as antiquated today. Perhaps they do not coincide with the modern day woman's ideals and philosophies of strength, independence, and self sufficiency. Yet, I'd like to know what practices the men of today engage in and are they really working for them? Because, well, they're not working for me.
I have been in love once in my life. Truly in love. I was 15. And 16. And 17.
Somewhere around 21 I stopped being in love with him and at 22 realized that I'd perhaps spent much of that time being in love with an idea rather than an actuality. At 23 I've had a few lovely beginnings. But I've yet to truly be in it. I've yet to actually be in love and know what it is to be loved by someone else. I've yet to be in it. (And that's okay: I'm young, I realize this...there's ample time.)
And in the place of real experience I hold onto past memory like a box full of love letters kept in a trunk at the foot of my bed. I escape into the fictional realms of other worldly love and the fantastical day dreams I create frequently. I live vicariously through the details and stories of girlfriends and even strangers, holding onto the hope that the universe will one day pay it forward.
I suppose I am what many may call a hopeless romantic. I kid that I was born in the wrong era. I crave courtship. But more so I think it's about finding that soul who so beautifully responds to yours. It's about finding someone who's just as strange and complex and surprising. It's about allowing someone to see you with your morning face because you know they're going to dive into every conversation and thought and ideal and belief you express no matter how seemingly small or trivial. They exist...these people. And perhaps this is what our 20s are for: weeding out the immature, the lazy, the clueless... the jerks. All so we can make it one step closer to those other lost souls of earlier eras who wound up in the 21st century too.
Maybe hopeful romantic is more appropriate.
These days I wake up and read e.e. cummings before climbing out of bed. Sometimes I read to myself, other times I like to hear the feel of the words on my tongue and the sounds that resonate in the air long after they've been whispered. Today's poem could not be more appropriate (and it's for Shea, whom I know loves this piece too...):
28
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all the flowers. Don't cry
-the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
Until next time friends,
Lizbeth
Granted, I can appreciate that such practices and traditions are seen as antiquated today. Perhaps they do not coincide with the modern day woman's ideals and philosophies of strength, independence, and self sufficiency. Yet, I'd like to know what practices the men of today engage in and are they really working for them? Because, well, they're not working for me.
I have been in love once in my life. Truly in love. I was 15. And 16. And 17.
Somewhere around 21 I stopped being in love with him and at 22 realized that I'd perhaps spent much of that time being in love with an idea rather than an actuality. At 23 I've had a few lovely beginnings. But I've yet to truly be in it. I've yet to actually be in love and know what it is to be loved by someone else. I've yet to be in it. (And that's okay: I'm young, I realize this...there's ample time.)
And in the place of real experience I hold onto past memory like a box full of love letters kept in a trunk at the foot of my bed. I escape into the fictional realms of other worldly love and the fantastical day dreams I create frequently. I live vicariously through the details and stories of girlfriends and even strangers, holding onto the hope that the universe will one day pay it forward.
I suppose I am what many may call a hopeless romantic. I kid that I was born in the wrong era. I crave courtship. But more so I think it's about finding that soul who so beautifully responds to yours. It's about finding someone who's just as strange and complex and surprising. It's about allowing someone to see you with your morning face because you know they're going to dive into every conversation and thought and ideal and belief you express no matter how seemingly small or trivial. They exist...these people. And perhaps this is what our 20s are for: weeding out the immature, the lazy, the clueless... the jerks. All so we can make it one step closer to those other lost souls of earlier eras who wound up in the 21st century too.
Maybe hopeful romantic is more appropriate.
These days I wake up and read e.e. cummings before climbing out of bed. Sometimes I read to myself, other times I like to hear the feel of the words on my tongue and the sounds that resonate in the air long after they've been whispered. Today's poem could not be more appropriate (and it's for Shea, whom I know loves this piece too...):
28
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all the flowers. Don't cry
-the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
Until next time friends,
Lizbeth
Monday, August 16, 2010
a really great day
A few weeks ago I got to talking with a dear friend about mothers and the delicate dynamic that is the mother-daughter relationship. She said to me:
You know, the day you realize that becoming your mother is a good thing... well that's a really great day.
And I replied:
Becoming my mother is something I actually aspire to...
And we both just paused and smiled and noted that if our mothers could in fact hear this conversation it would be overwhelmingly heart warming for all.
(My mother... a few decades ago)
But it's true. As I get older I more frequently have those moments where I think, "wow, I am mother.' It's so clear in every cup of coffee I sip, or lap I run around the park, every purchase I make from clothing and accessories to housewares and magazines... every card I write, every event I plan, my need to organize and nest, and those rare moments in which I agonize, agonize, agonize... It's in the joy I feel from getting all dressed up, or spending quality time with good friends and family, from drinking champagne on a random weeknight to enjoying a delicious home cooked meal.
It's all there. Like she's been wound up within all of these elements of my life that I love and embrace no matter how seemingly small or simple. I am my mother. And I have to say that years from now when I'm even more grown up, if I can still look at my life and say that, it will still be a really great day.
You know, the day you realize that becoming your mother is a good thing... well that's a really great day.
And I replied:
Becoming my mother is something I actually aspire to...
And we both just paused and smiled and noted that if our mothers could in fact hear this conversation it would be overwhelmingly heart warming for all.
(My mother... a few decades ago)
But it's true. As I get older I more frequently have those moments where I think, "wow, I am mother.' It's so clear in every cup of coffee I sip, or lap I run around the park, every purchase I make from clothing and accessories to housewares and magazines... every card I write, every event I plan, my need to organize and nest, and those rare moments in which I agonize, agonize, agonize... It's in the joy I feel from getting all dressed up, or spending quality time with good friends and family, from drinking champagne on a random weeknight to enjoying a delicious home cooked meal.
It's all there. Like she's been wound up within all of these elements of my life that I love and embrace no matter how seemingly small or simple. I am my mother. And I have to say that years from now when I'm even more grown up, if I can still look at my life and say that, it will still be a really great day.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
meditation
I'd live my life barefoot, if I could.
I'd say the exact thing I mean to say, the moment I mean to say it.
I'd hug. And then I'd hug again. Really hug.
I'd play guitar on the sidewalk while the sun made me a shadow on the pavement.
I'd sing the catalog of song filled notebooks hidden within the deep recesses of my mind, my desk, and black trunk full of past memory.
I'd condense myself into a single backpack and know better the meaning of being free.
I'd lie in a sunny patch of grass creating pictures in the clouds.
I'd do it today.
And again the next.
I'd cut my hair more than every 6 or 7 months.
I'd sing unabashedly. Anywhere. Everywhere. Whenever the mood struck.
I'd make lemonade out of lemons. Literally.
I'd read e.e. cummings every morning before getting out of bed.
I'd linger between the sheets just a few moments longer...because I love the smell of clean laundry.
I'd write more letters.
I'd keep telling you I love you even though I know you may never say it back.
I'd keep being hopeful.
I'd do it today.
And again the next.
And allow such hope to radiate as far as possible.
I'd stop making lists and live more purposely and intently in the present moment.
I'd live my life barefoot, if I could.
And I'd sit outside eating avocado toast with people I love, talking about life, laughing about the ridiculousness of our young adulthood.
I'd never let myself cease to love and live and love and live my life...
I'd also wear more plaid.
I'd say the exact thing I mean to say, the moment I mean to say it.
I'd hug. And then I'd hug again. Really hug.
I'd play guitar on the sidewalk while the sun made me a shadow on the pavement.
I'd sing the catalog of song filled notebooks hidden within the deep recesses of my mind, my desk, and black trunk full of past memory.
I'd condense myself into a single backpack and know better the meaning of being free.
I'd lie in a sunny patch of grass creating pictures in the clouds.
I'd do it today.
And again the next.
I'd cut my hair more than every 6 or 7 months.
I'd sing unabashedly. Anywhere. Everywhere. Whenever the mood struck.
I'd make lemonade out of lemons. Literally.
I'd read e.e. cummings every morning before getting out of bed.
I'd linger between the sheets just a few moments longer...because I love the smell of clean laundry.
I'd write more letters.
I'd keep telling you I love you even though I know you may never say it back.
I'd keep being hopeful.
I'd do it today.
And again the next.
And allow such hope to radiate as far as possible.
I'd stop making lists and live more purposely and intently in the present moment.
I'd live my life barefoot, if I could.
And I'd sit outside eating avocado toast with people I love, talking about life, laughing about the ridiculousness of our young adulthood.
I'd never let myself cease to love and live and love and live my life...
I'd also wear more plaid.
Monday, August 9, 2010
The Mean Reds
Here's to an era of film capturing the true beauty, class, and intellect of fabulous women. Audrey, I love you.
Friday, July 30, 2010
marvel at something.
"When some guy who yes, looks a little like Yoda, hands you a prophecy, you have to respond."
So so excited for this.
Namaste friends,
Lizbeth
So so excited for this.
Namaste friends,
Lizbeth
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Free Spirit
This is Laura.
I honestly don't know what I'd do without her friendship...
or just, I don't know what I'd do without her.
Friday, July 23, 2010
the light
There is a time of morning between 5:30 and 5:45 AM. A tiny piece of the day when the birds have yet to start their song, tourists have yet to flood Starbucks for their morning jolts, and my mind has not quite come into waking consciousness. Hues of pink and gold begin braking through the clouds of dawn illuminating a sky it seems I'm seeing for the first time. And as light slowly pours through those puffs of white, I find myself saturated in the kind of crisp air one can only feel this early in a day.
Neighbors have yet to rise. This little spot on this seemingly, now, little island, feels completely isolated in its tranquil and zen like morning state. And through the piercing stillness all I hear is the sound of my sneakers pounding the asphalt, my heart beating rapidly in my chest, the new jams of Vampire Weekend and Rogue Wave streaming through my headphones. For these first 15 minutes it's just me and the sky and the most perfect 'good morning' I can imagine. I now have a new understanding of the runner's high.
I make my way down George Street and wave to the small group of construction workers assembling a large wooden fence around the house on the corner. On Hollinger Street I smile at my graffito friend Gandhi, then greet the sweet elderly couple out for their habitual morning walk. The gentleman always nods and smiles, his wife making sure to let go of his hand for just a moment to wave good morning. I cross the street and start down the bike path around Kapiolani Park. Now it's me, a few other runners, and (what appears to be) all of the dog owners in Honolulu. I see my usual favorites: a large golden named Henry, a pair of chocolate labs, and a sweet little mut named Koko. Koko remembers me this morning and I'm soon tackled with kisses. His owner and I both laugh and smile and wish one another a good day. This truly is the perfect 'good morning.'
I finish my loop around the park and join the overflow of caffeine addicts at Starbucks. I try adverting my eyes from any Newspapers refusing to ruin this purely internal and peaceful waking up with any information from the outside world. Then, me and my latte make our way over to the beach to sit in the sand and say hello to the ocean. I'm catching the midst of Dawn Patrol now. A few surfers catch waves before the rest of the day calls them elsewhere and I watch intently. I sip my coffee, close my eyes, and switch the audio to The Light by Philip Glass. This is quite possibly my favorite piece of music. I cannot imagine greeting the day, the ocean, or this breathtaking sky to any other soundtrack. I like to think Glass wrote this symphony with a view like this in mind: with a feeling of radiance and saturation from the most natural and awing of all light sources. I like to think he too once took in a morning like this.
I take a few final sips while walking back home. The birds are now in full song, neighbors move around in their homes, and I slowly find myself moving toward a clearer mind. But perhaps more importantly, in this moment, my mind is still. As I walk up the steps of the house and open the front door I am reminded of a notion by the Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu:
"To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders."
And I realize that that's it. That is the beauty of this early morning, of this sky, and this run, and that 15 minute window: surrender. It is here, in this first greeting of the day, that both the universe and I completely give in to one another. And as the rest of the day unfolds, we find ourselves that much more in tune, and centered, and alive.
Good morning, Hawaii.
Thank you.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Craigslist Cuckoo's Nest
I kept waiting for Jack Nicholson to walk into the room. Jack Nicholson as McMurphy: the man dodging prison by feigning insanity. I half expected to see him shuffle through the door in his slippers, Nurse Ratched at his side, preparing for another riveting group session. It would have been appropriate. I think I'd hardly have blinked twice had such fantastical events actually occurred.
I chose a seat on the brown leather couch across the room. I opened my book attempting to dive into the girls' book club pick only to realize that I wasn't going to get much reading done today. Eileen sat down next to me.
Eileen is a tall, slim, seemingly fragile woman. Her wiry black hair is twisted neatly into a bun on the top of her head. An antique gold locket dangles from her neck as she leans over regarding a pamphlet about Schizophrenia. She turns her head to look at me and stares. I continue looking at the page in my hands pretending to read, seeing her seeing me out of my periphery. I finally turn to look at her and she continues staring. Now I'm not sure if we're playing some sort of game or if she's frozen in deep thought. Neither. Eileen is just... slow. 5 minutes pass and she's finally opened her mouth to speak to me:
"Do you have diabetes?" she asks.
I look up from the page and reply simply, "No."
She stares. 2 minutes later replies, "Oh."
If trees could talk I imagine they'd sound like Eileen. I imagine they'd be careful and delicate. Words would flow on their own time, as if they had all the time in the world to be spoken. You can actually see the wheels turning, thoughts processing, mind soaring as she looks at you. And as you converse it feels as though she's been caught in the slow motion sequence of some bad film while you're in fast forward.
Steve sits in a rocking chair on the other side of the room. He's dressed in black slacks and a blue pinstripe shirt. Thick square framed glasses rest on the edge of his nose as he attempts to figure out the apparently complex remote control. Steve does not speak. He does not respond when spoken to. At times I worry he's not even breathing. He does firmly state that he has "issues with windows" and drags the rocking chair to the center of the room, right in front of the TV.
Nice to meet you Steve.
I'm thinking he and Helen might get along as she seems hardly verbal herself. She does however make a point of informing me about the large coffee she consumed before arriving.
"Do you think that's going to be a problem?" she asks.
"A problem for whom?" I reply.
She just stares. I don't think I gave her the response she was looking for. I look over at Eileen who's staring again. Steve is still not talking though now we're watching an episode of People's Court.
Thank you Steve.
For a moment everyone returns to themselves. Eileen reads the newspaper. Okay, she's reading it aloud but at least she's not staring anymore. Helen plays a game on her cell phone and Steve, well... he's now got issues with rocking chairs and sits on the floor: shoeless. For a moment I think maybe they're all just nervous. Maybe this seemingly strange and slightly precarious experience has gotten everyone a bit frazzled. Maybe I'm not the most normal person here... I'm just better at hiding my freakishness.
Cue Elaine. She is a force to be sure- a petite, supremely tan older woman dressed in a kimono like dress, with fanny pack, hair accessories, and garage sale jewels to match. I'm kind of hoping she's a psychic or a fortune teller, maybe even an old school hippie who just had too much fun back in the 60s. Of course Elaine enters the room, singles me out, and says:
"I know you. I know you... or maybe you just remind me of a soul I met in my past life. I think that's it."
I smile and reply, "Maybe."
For the next three hours Elaine will continue entertaining me with stories of her family, her ex-politician husband who slept around with numerous women, her Hawaiian daughter who's a hula dancer/dental hygienist, and her son who's apparently living in a room down the hall. She loves to give things away and attempts to gift me a hot pink purse "because it matches [my] snow white lips," countless pieces of jewelry, and a piece of art she constructed out of found objects including gold fish crackers and newspaper clippings. She gets nervous when learning Eileen's name. Eileen is apparently her lost triplet.
Come to understand now that Elaine is not a psychic or even a hippie. Not really anyway. She's is everything and anything it seems. She walks in and out of the room sharing various possessions, filling the room with stuffed animals, umbrellas, clothing, a ball gown, an Irish flag, a pink ukulele... She's like a Tim Burton character. Maybe if Burton ever re-made Marry Poppins she'd look something like this. After all, she's filling this room with enough stuff... who even knows where it's all coming from.
I try in earnest to focus on my book but it is nearly impossible. I'm now waiting for Robin Williams as Patch Adams to walk through with a red rubber nose. I'm now expecting to see Rudy curled up next to me, hiding from imaginary squirrels running throughout the room.
But this is better than fiction...
My dear friend Laura arrived on the island Wednesday afternoon. I had been anxiously awaiting her arrival after nearly a year apart. Laura spent this past year teaching English in Spain and being quite the world traveler at that. Lucky for me, I chose an exotic location, one Laura deemed enticing enough to visit!
I should not have been surprised when she called me the day before her arrival informing me that she'd made an appointment for a research study. She let me know that they simply stick your fingers 10 times within 3 hours to test glucose levels, then pay you $50 in cash and send you on your way. Again, I should not have been surprised that Laura would have looked into something like this while perusing Craigslist... needless to say, I too did my research, made an appointment, and got excited for my 50 bucks.
Little did I know that in between finger sticks, drops of blood, and chugging bottles of juice, I'd find myself in the midst of such oddity. But then again, I suppose anyone engaging in events found on Craigslist must prepare themselves for the possibility of bizarre and strange.
I spent 3 hours of an afternoon with Eileen, Steve, Helen, and Elaine. I officially gave 10 drops of blood and read 5 pages of my book. I came home with a 50 dollar bill and a rather large smile on my face. People are amazingly strange. Life is truly absurd. And I am funnily content with the goings on of that day.
Thank you Laura.
I look forward to the next adventure.
I chose a seat on the brown leather couch across the room. I opened my book attempting to dive into the girls' book club pick only to realize that I wasn't going to get much reading done today. Eileen sat down next to me.
Eileen is a tall, slim, seemingly fragile woman. Her wiry black hair is twisted neatly into a bun on the top of her head. An antique gold locket dangles from her neck as she leans over regarding a pamphlet about Schizophrenia. She turns her head to look at me and stares. I continue looking at the page in my hands pretending to read, seeing her seeing me out of my periphery. I finally turn to look at her and she continues staring. Now I'm not sure if we're playing some sort of game or if she's frozen in deep thought. Neither. Eileen is just... slow. 5 minutes pass and she's finally opened her mouth to speak to me:
"Do you have diabetes?" she asks.
I look up from the page and reply simply, "No."
She stares. 2 minutes later replies, "Oh."
If trees could talk I imagine they'd sound like Eileen. I imagine they'd be careful and delicate. Words would flow on their own time, as if they had all the time in the world to be spoken. You can actually see the wheels turning, thoughts processing, mind soaring as she looks at you. And as you converse it feels as though she's been caught in the slow motion sequence of some bad film while you're in fast forward.
Steve sits in a rocking chair on the other side of the room. He's dressed in black slacks and a blue pinstripe shirt. Thick square framed glasses rest on the edge of his nose as he attempts to figure out the apparently complex remote control. Steve does not speak. He does not respond when spoken to. At times I worry he's not even breathing. He does firmly state that he has "issues with windows" and drags the rocking chair to the center of the room, right in front of the TV.
Nice to meet you Steve.
I'm thinking he and Helen might get along as she seems hardly verbal herself. She does however make a point of informing me about the large coffee she consumed before arriving.
"Do you think that's going to be a problem?" she asks.
"A problem for whom?" I reply.
She just stares. I don't think I gave her the response she was looking for. I look over at Eileen who's staring again. Steve is still not talking though now we're watching an episode of People's Court.
Thank you Steve.
For a moment everyone returns to themselves. Eileen reads the newspaper. Okay, she's reading it aloud but at least she's not staring anymore. Helen plays a game on her cell phone and Steve, well... he's now got issues with rocking chairs and sits on the floor: shoeless. For a moment I think maybe they're all just nervous. Maybe this seemingly strange and slightly precarious experience has gotten everyone a bit frazzled. Maybe I'm not the most normal person here... I'm just better at hiding my freakishness.
Cue Elaine. She is a force to be sure- a petite, supremely tan older woman dressed in a kimono like dress, with fanny pack, hair accessories, and garage sale jewels to match. I'm kind of hoping she's a psychic or a fortune teller, maybe even an old school hippie who just had too much fun back in the 60s. Of course Elaine enters the room, singles me out, and says:
"I know you. I know you... or maybe you just remind me of a soul I met in my past life. I think that's it."
I smile and reply, "Maybe."
For the next three hours Elaine will continue entertaining me with stories of her family, her ex-politician husband who slept around with numerous women, her Hawaiian daughter who's a hula dancer/dental hygienist, and her son who's apparently living in a room down the hall. She loves to give things away and attempts to gift me a hot pink purse "because it matches [my] snow white lips," countless pieces of jewelry, and a piece of art she constructed out of found objects including gold fish crackers and newspaper clippings. She gets nervous when learning Eileen's name. Eileen is apparently her lost triplet.
Come to understand now that Elaine is not a psychic or even a hippie. Not really anyway. She's is everything and anything it seems. She walks in and out of the room sharing various possessions, filling the room with stuffed animals, umbrellas, clothing, a ball gown, an Irish flag, a pink ukulele... She's like a Tim Burton character. Maybe if Burton ever re-made Marry Poppins she'd look something like this. After all, she's filling this room with enough stuff... who even knows where it's all coming from.
I try in earnest to focus on my book but it is nearly impossible. I'm now waiting for Robin Williams as Patch Adams to walk through with a red rubber nose. I'm now expecting to see Rudy curled up next to me, hiding from imaginary squirrels running throughout the room.
But this is better than fiction...
My dear friend Laura arrived on the island Wednesday afternoon. I had been anxiously awaiting her arrival after nearly a year apart. Laura spent this past year teaching English in Spain and being quite the world traveler at that. Lucky for me, I chose an exotic location, one Laura deemed enticing enough to visit!
I should not have been surprised when she called me the day before her arrival informing me that she'd made an appointment for a research study. She let me know that they simply stick your fingers 10 times within 3 hours to test glucose levels, then pay you $50 in cash and send you on your way. Again, I should not have been surprised that Laura would have looked into something like this while perusing Craigslist... needless to say, I too did my research, made an appointment, and got excited for my 50 bucks.
Little did I know that in between finger sticks, drops of blood, and chugging bottles of juice, I'd find myself in the midst of such oddity. But then again, I suppose anyone engaging in events found on Craigslist must prepare themselves for the possibility of bizarre and strange.
I spent 3 hours of an afternoon with Eileen, Steve, Helen, and Elaine. I officially gave 10 drops of blood and read 5 pages of my book. I came home with a 50 dollar bill and a rather large smile on my face. People are amazingly strange. Life is truly absurd. And I am funnily content with the goings on of that day.
Thank you Laura.
I look forward to the next adventure.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Act Great
I skipped to Day 44 in my Meditations from the Mat. Today I find this:
What is the key to untie the knot of your mind's suffering?
Act great. My dear, always act great.
-Hafez
And I find this:
...make a beginning. We can count on the new and the unfamiliar to be awkward. But the awkwardness of that first step is no reason for us to deny ourselves the opportunity to have balance in a given area of our lives. We we will have the degree of grace in our lives that we permit ourselves to have.
Act great. My dear, always act great. Let's not wait until we feel good and then begin the acting. We must act great all the time. "Instead, act as if" so that we may begin.
Let us sit and attempt meditation even as our minds refuse to quiet. Let us practice head stands even if we must use the wall for support. Let us be outspoken and outgoing even if our hearts pound and the inner voice of judgment creeps in. Let us get dressed up, throw on perfume, and take a chance... if only for one evening.
Act great.
Fake it until we make it, right?
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
you're in a car with a beautiful boy...
I'm standing in line waiting to order my Tazo Tea and can't help but overhear the young woman behind me recounting the details of last night's date:
"Now just imagine, you're in a car with a beautiful boy... (and this and this and this)."
"And you're trying not to be self conscious but I mean, you're in a car with a beautiful boy... (and that and that and that)."
"Then your phone starts ringing... while you're in a car with a beautiful boy... (and on and on and on)."
And as this phrase replays in my mind, I pick up my tea, sit down in a chair, and remember why it's so familiar:
"You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for."
-from You are Jeff by Richard Siken
In other news, I've officially been asked out on a date. A very real, grown up like date! And so it seems that this weekend I too will be a in a car with a beautiful boy...
(More to come!)
"Now just imagine, you're in a car with a beautiful boy... (and this and this and this)."
"And you're trying not to be self conscious but I mean, you're in a car with a beautiful boy... (and that and that and that)."
"Then your phone starts ringing... while you're in a car with a beautiful boy... (and on and on and on)."
And as this phrase replays in my mind, I pick up my tea, sit down in a chair, and remember why it's so familiar:
"You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for."
-from You are Jeff by Richard Siken
In other news, I've officially been asked out on a date. A very real, grown up like date! And so it seems that this weekend I too will be a in a car with a beautiful boy...
(More to come!)
Sunday, July 4, 2010
23
It was precisely 23 years ago today, well, yesterday, that my father had to forfeit the tennis tournament he would have undoubtedly won (as he likes to say) in order to meet my mother at the hospital. I made them go in on July 3rd and perhaps in an early exercise of my supreme stubbornness, did not make my appearance until the following morning. And ever since it seems to be: I like to do things in my own time, in my own way, when I’m ready.
Andy Rooney once said that the last birthday that’s any good is 23. Well Andy Rooney, I can’t say that I’m your biggest fan, but I’m hoping you got this one right.
23, I feel good about you.
Don’t let me down.
Andy Rooney once said that the last birthday that’s any good is 23. Well Andy Rooney, I can’t say that I’m your biggest fan, but I’m hoping you got this one right.
23, I feel good about you.
Don’t let me down.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Coffee Talk? No, Coffee Telepathy?
The other day a man called me brave.
A man I'd never met.
A man who knew nothing about me beyond what he could see, beyond what he discerned from learning that yes, I was hiking alone.
It's kind of amazing... how someone can say something really small and it just resonates inside you. It's kind of amazing how you can spend a lifetime defining who you are under very specific terms. If asked to describe myself in a series of words on the grand questionnaire of life, I would never choose brave. But here he was, this stranger, using it so openly, so matter of fact.
A dear friend recently wrote me a letter in which she called me adventurous and daring , more so than she ever would have guessed.
I'm beginning to think I don't really see myself as others do. I'm beginning to think I've gotten stuck in my own time container, in my own careful labeling of things, and neglected to notice this shift. Somewhere along the way I became someone brave. And adventurous. And daring. Woah, that girl sounds awesome. I'd love to meet her!
Maybe it's a difference in definitions. Perhaps how I see brave and daring differs from that of those peers describing me. And it all became clear tonight.
As I type I'm sitting in a coffee shop. I'm sitting next to a remarkably beautiful man. It's really the incredibly attractive and handsome ones who get to be called beautiful in my book. And he is classically beautiful. He very well could have stepped out of a Vogue photo shoot or a delicious French film moments before perching his plaid shirt and dark blue jeans next to me. As I type I'm not so subtly staring at him, blushing, and quickly averting my eyes when his meet mine. We both smile. And now I blush even more.
A brave woman would talk to him. A brave woman would utter a few recognizable syllables, continue smiling and maybe in a truly daring moment, ask him to coffee. Okay maybe not coffee, since we're in a coffee shop and all but she'd ask him out, or ask for his phone number. Or perhaps more subtly ask for the time, comment on the quietness of the place so late at night, note how rare it is to see someone touching pen to paper amidst a room full of laptops. And all the while she'd admire that perfectly coiffed head of jet black hair he undoubtedly took no time at all to style. He just jumped out of the shower looking like Dr. McDreamy and Mr. Darcy with a French accent all at once.
Now I don't actually know what his voice sounds like or what he's scribbling into that little notebook as he hardly touches a cup of iced coffee. He's just sitting there, one leg crossed over the other, foot tapping to the beat of the songs coming through his headphones. For a few beats our feet move in sync. Again, I look, he looks, I avert... we smile.
The brave woman would make a point of noting the silliness of this game. She'd see it as an entry into conversation and ask what he was listening to or how to get to the Whole Foods (he's carrying a re-usable Whole Foods bag so we can only imagine his love of food and being green. It's not TJ's but I'll take it... oh stupid girl! Talk to him!). But no, I sit here, typing about him, creating good conversation topics in my mind, idealizing scenarios of where he's from, what he does, how he'd say my name if I ever had the courage to tell him what it is. In the past half hour I've daydreamed about our wedding and what our kids would look like...did I mention he's an amazing dancer? Haha.
Even the way he runs his fingers through his hair is beautiful. He does the gentle toss of the head then tucks a piece behind his ear, as if he's trying to listen more intently to whatever it is he's listening to.
This man is beautiful. We are sitting close enough to talk. Silence. In this moment, I am not brave. Not by any stretch.
But sure, I'll fly thousands of miles to live on an island without any sort of plan.
And I can take adventurous 18 mile treks all by lonesome.
I'll buy a new instrument on a whim and teach myself how to play. And I can make the choice to live an ideal based life, in this moment, with honesty and integrity and gusto... without a real clue as to where I'll end up.
Yet, I cannot open my mouth to speak to beautiful men with beautiful hair and ink stained fingers. And after I publish this post I will pack up my things and take the roundabout way out the door, if only to get one last look at this gorgeous creature. In the day dream I've asked for his number and we've made a date to go to dinner. In reality, I'm headed home to watch Pretty in Pink for the umpteenth time.
Well, baby steps.
After all, how many episodes did it take before Angela Chase finally talked to Jordan Catalano?
A man I'd never met.
A man who knew nothing about me beyond what he could see, beyond what he discerned from learning that yes, I was hiking alone.
It's kind of amazing... how someone can say something really small and it just resonates inside you. It's kind of amazing how you can spend a lifetime defining who you are under very specific terms. If asked to describe myself in a series of words on the grand questionnaire of life, I would never choose brave. But here he was, this stranger, using it so openly, so matter of fact.
A dear friend recently wrote me a letter in which she called me adventurous and daring , more so than she ever would have guessed.
I'm beginning to think I don't really see myself as others do. I'm beginning to think I've gotten stuck in my own time container, in my own careful labeling of things, and neglected to notice this shift. Somewhere along the way I became someone brave. And adventurous. And daring. Woah, that girl sounds awesome. I'd love to meet her!
Maybe it's a difference in definitions. Perhaps how I see brave and daring differs from that of those peers describing me. And it all became clear tonight.
As I type I'm sitting in a coffee shop. I'm sitting next to a remarkably beautiful man. It's really the incredibly attractive and handsome ones who get to be called beautiful in my book. And he is classically beautiful. He very well could have stepped out of a Vogue photo shoot or a delicious French film moments before perching his plaid shirt and dark blue jeans next to me. As I type I'm not so subtly staring at him, blushing, and quickly averting my eyes when his meet mine. We both smile. And now I blush even more.
A brave woman would talk to him. A brave woman would utter a few recognizable syllables, continue smiling and maybe in a truly daring moment, ask him to coffee. Okay maybe not coffee, since we're in a coffee shop and all but she'd ask him out, or ask for his phone number. Or perhaps more subtly ask for the time, comment on the quietness of the place so late at night, note how rare it is to see someone touching pen to paper amidst a room full of laptops. And all the while she'd admire that perfectly coiffed head of jet black hair he undoubtedly took no time at all to style. He just jumped out of the shower looking like Dr. McDreamy and Mr. Darcy with a French accent all at once.
Now I don't actually know what his voice sounds like or what he's scribbling into that little notebook as he hardly touches a cup of iced coffee. He's just sitting there, one leg crossed over the other, foot tapping to the beat of the songs coming through his headphones. For a few beats our feet move in sync. Again, I look, he looks, I avert... we smile.
The brave woman would make a point of noting the silliness of this game. She'd see it as an entry into conversation and ask what he was listening to or how to get to the Whole Foods (he's carrying a re-usable Whole Foods bag so we can only imagine his love of food and being green. It's not TJ's but I'll take it... oh stupid girl! Talk to him!). But no, I sit here, typing about him, creating good conversation topics in my mind, idealizing scenarios of where he's from, what he does, how he'd say my name if I ever had the courage to tell him what it is. In the past half hour I've daydreamed about our wedding and what our kids would look like...did I mention he's an amazing dancer? Haha.
Even the way he runs his fingers through his hair is beautiful. He does the gentle toss of the head then tucks a piece behind his ear, as if he's trying to listen more intently to whatever it is he's listening to.
This man is beautiful. We are sitting close enough to talk. Silence. In this moment, I am not brave. Not by any stretch.
But sure, I'll fly thousands of miles to live on an island without any sort of plan.
And I can take adventurous 18 mile treks all by lonesome.
I'll buy a new instrument on a whim and teach myself how to play. And I can make the choice to live an ideal based life, in this moment, with honesty and integrity and gusto... without a real clue as to where I'll end up.
Yet, I cannot open my mouth to speak to beautiful men with beautiful hair and ink stained fingers. And after I publish this post I will pack up my things and take the roundabout way out the door, if only to get one last look at this gorgeous creature. In the day dream I've asked for his number and we've made a date to go to dinner. In reality, I'm headed home to watch Pretty in Pink for the umpteenth time.
Well, baby steps.
After all, how many episodes did it take before Angela Chase finally talked to Jordan Catalano?
Monday, June 21, 2010
"You're Eat, Pray, What-ing?"
I bought a ukulele.
After a bit of research and a few conversations with a group of somewhat confused musicians, I bought her. Apparently they couldn't make sense of why I was so intent on buying a quality ukulele, how I possibly had the time to teach myself, and what on earth this had to do with any sort of personal/spiritual journey.
So I informed them of my attempts to Eat, Pray, Love my way through this time in Hawaii. Learning ukulele is on the list. Ukulele is my project, my teachable moment, and a dive into something I'm passionate about: music. I'm still not sure they fully comprehended the great personal victory of this purchase. Yet one sweet gentleman asked me to write down the name and author of the book I mentioned... he thought his wife might enjoy it.
I straightforwardly told the younger gentleman that I am not buying this uke for novelty sake. I want an instrument that will last. No, I do not want your inexpensive starter kit. What uke would you buy for yourself? He smiled, laughed, and asked, "So you're eat, pray, what-ing?"
He then picked up the Kala long neck ukulele that I would soon after bring home.
I can officially play several chords and am attempting to learn as many songs as possible. Apparently you can play a number of popular tunes only knowing 4 or 5 chords. I've made a personal promise to etch out practicing time daily and have even taken some free lessons from my skeptical friends at the shop. I also hope to be playing on the street next month. My mother thinks I'm joking about this.
And boy, Ingrid Michaelson and Jason Mraz sure make it look effortless. Although, I'm Yours has been my song of choice today and I have to say it's coming along. I'm already getting blisters on my fingers. I'm told this is a good sign.
Here she is, beautiful new love of the moment:
On another note, in a letter from a sweet friend today:
The earth is speaking to us, but we can't hear because of all the racket our senses are making- Sometimes we need to erase them, erase our senses. Then-maybe-the earth will touch us. The universe will speak. The stars will whisper.
-from Stargirl
After a bit of research and a few conversations with a group of somewhat confused musicians, I bought her. Apparently they couldn't make sense of why I was so intent on buying a quality ukulele, how I possibly had the time to teach myself, and what on earth this had to do with any sort of personal/spiritual journey.
So I informed them of my attempts to Eat, Pray, Love my way through this time in Hawaii. Learning ukulele is on the list. Ukulele is my project, my teachable moment, and a dive into something I'm passionate about: music. I'm still not sure they fully comprehended the great personal victory of this purchase. Yet one sweet gentleman asked me to write down the name and author of the book I mentioned... he thought his wife might enjoy it.
I straightforwardly told the younger gentleman that I am not buying this uke for novelty sake. I want an instrument that will last. No, I do not want your inexpensive starter kit. What uke would you buy for yourself? He smiled, laughed, and asked, "So you're eat, pray, what-ing?"
He then picked up the Kala long neck ukulele that I would soon after bring home.
I can officially play several chords and am attempting to learn as many songs as possible. Apparently you can play a number of popular tunes only knowing 4 or 5 chords. I've made a personal promise to etch out practicing time daily and have even taken some free lessons from my skeptical friends at the shop. I also hope to be playing on the street next month. My mother thinks I'm joking about this.
And boy, Ingrid Michaelson and Jason Mraz sure make it look effortless. Although, I'm Yours has been my song of choice today and I have to say it's coming along. I'm already getting blisters on my fingers. I'm told this is a good sign.
Here she is, beautiful new love of the moment:
On another note, in a letter from a sweet friend today:
The earth is speaking to us, but we can't hear because of all the racket our senses are making- Sometimes we need to erase them, erase our senses. Then-maybe-the earth will touch us. The universe will speak. The stars will whisper.
-from Stargirl
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Have you Forgotten
I can't sleep.
I'm staring at the lower right corner of my computer screen as it reads 4:47 AM. I forget for a moment that good old Chip (my beloved computer) has still got me on Maryland time. It is in fact only 10:48 PM. Nonetheless, I can't sleep.
I set my i-tunes to shuffle and a new, well favored tune, Have You Forgotten by Jenny Owen Youngs starts in.(I do enjoy the original by Red House Painters as well)She's got the quirky-folk-vibe of an Ingrid Michaelson or Regina Spektor with a hint of Cat Power and Kimya Dawson. I hear her voice and imagine an old fashioned stand up microphone, a smoky lounge with colored lanterns, over-sized couches, and entry ways adorned with dangling beads or strings of paper birds. Groups of funky hipsters, writers, and artists wearing thick framed glasses drink tea and tap their fingers to the melancholic, yet perceptively smart lyrics of this hauntingly sweet sound.
Hmm, how nice to be transported if even for a moment, huh?
And so goes the refrain: Have you forgotten how to love yourself? Have you forgotten how to love yourself? And so it resonates tonight.
In a seemingly serendipitous moment I flip open my latest purchase, Meditations from the Mat, a beautiful collection of daily meditations/reflections not only on the practice of Yoga, but its full integration into every day life.
As my own practice reminds me, we are Yoga.
We are yoga.
We are the breath, the Prana, the light source of unique individuality.
This is not a practice but an extension of our most natural selves. We move out into the world: beyond the studio, stepping off our mats, releasing postures, all the while living our yoga. And these notions of positive energy and gratitude are not just notions but realities. Thoughts of peace, understanding, and the most central component of love are not just thoughts. We live Yoga. We hold it dear then thrust is outward into the great expanse, feel the great wash over all that surrounds us, and wait as divine Karma provides all that we should need. (still with me?)
Tonight I've flipped open to Day 19 only to find a favorite quote from the Indigo Girls: Well, darkness has a hunger that's insatiable, and lightness has a call that's hard to hear.
Talk about good timing- about interlacing liquid threads, to steal from my other writings. These thoughts have intersected here, tonight, in my own meditation of sorts.
The book's reflection delves into our human nature of making mistakes - of falling into a downward spiral, or even the fear of following in the destructive footsteps of another. We have all known the insatiable hunger of darkness, though in choosing to hear lightness the call becomes clearer and clearer. We live in a world filled with voices of judgment. We've been conditioned, perhaps taught, to fear or cause harm to others and even ourselves. Gates and Kennison, the authors of Meditations note that there is another voice: one of lightness. Ahimsa is the practice of listening to this voice - learning to cultivate and act upon it, so that we may choose to not listen to those darker voices and move toward the vitality and energy of light instead.
We are surrounded by even the smallest elements of darkness daily. And while we have no responsibility or obligation to listen to, or act upon them, we all at times fall down the spiraled path. We are human after all. Yet, what if we could more actively call upon the light? What if we could remember to love ourselves more readily and fully without guilt or judgment? Maybe then others would be more apt to love us in similar manners and we in turn, could love them too.
5:28 AM
no, 11:28 PM.
I still can't sleep.
But I may at least (at most?) take comfort in knowing that I am in the most beautiful state of light. There is an inherent calm and peace that comes from an existence of such heightened self awareness. I wonder if Thoreau felt like this when he went off to the woods to live deliberately? When he sought to suck all the marrow out of life did he come to this place of lightness? Free of judgment or external voices and fear?
My Yoga instructor Melanie says that our greatest misunderstanding is that whatever it is we think we want, or need, or are looking for is something external. But rather, whatever that thing is already exists within. It is simply our responsibility and task to uncover and access that unique element of self. And then we realize what we've known all along: that we are beautiful, powerful, unique beings. Ours are the voices of substance, ours are the hearts filled with love, ours are the minds of complex and valuable matter.
....
So where did I go? It started with a song, and then connected to another lyric which was a piece of another text... And that resonated with a practice and an ideology and a way of life. And now I'm back to this internal investigation which is in a sense, what all of this is really about. (still with me?)
5:52 AM
no, 11:52 PM
Regardless, I'm tired. But I think there's some coherence in there somewhere.
I'm staring at the lower right corner of my computer screen as it reads 4:47 AM. I forget for a moment that good old Chip (my beloved computer) has still got me on Maryland time. It is in fact only 10:48 PM. Nonetheless, I can't sleep.
I set my i-tunes to shuffle and a new, well favored tune, Have You Forgotten by Jenny Owen Youngs starts in.(I do enjoy the original by Red House Painters as well)She's got the quirky-folk-vibe of an Ingrid Michaelson or Regina Spektor with a hint of Cat Power and Kimya Dawson. I hear her voice and imagine an old fashioned stand up microphone, a smoky lounge with colored lanterns, over-sized couches, and entry ways adorned with dangling beads or strings of paper birds. Groups of funky hipsters, writers, and artists wearing thick framed glasses drink tea and tap their fingers to the melancholic, yet perceptively smart lyrics of this hauntingly sweet sound.
Hmm, how nice to be transported if even for a moment, huh?
And so goes the refrain: Have you forgotten how to love yourself? Have you forgotten how to love yourself? And so it resonates tonight.
In a seemingly serendipitous moment I flip open my latest purchase, Meditations from the Mat, a beautiful collection of daily meditations/reflections not only on the practice of Yoga, but its full integration into every day life.
As my own practice reminds me, we are Yoga.
We are yoga.
We are the breath, the Prana, the light source of unique individuality.
This is not a practice but an extension of our most natural selves. We move out into the world: beyond the studio, stepping off our mats, releasing postures, all the while living our yoga. And these notions of positive energy and gratitude are not just notions but realities. Thoughts of peace, understanding, and the most central component of love are not just thoughts. We live Yoga. We hold it dear then thrust is outward into the great expanse, feel the great wash over all that surrounds us, and wait as divine Karma provides all that we should need. (still with me?)
Tonight I've flipped open to Day 19 only to find a favorite quote from the Indigo Girls: Well, darkness has a hunger that's insatiable, and lightness has a call that's hard to hear.
Talk about good timing- about interlacing liquid threads, to steal from my other writings. These thoughts have intersected here, tonight, in my own meditation of sorts.
The book's reflection delves into our human nature of making mistakes - of falling into a downward spiral, or even the fear of following in the destructive footsteps of another. We have all known the insatiable hunger of darkness, though in choosing to hear lightness the call becomes clearer and clearer. We live in a world filled with voices of judgment. We've been conditioned, perhaps taught, to fear or cause harm to others and even ourselves. Gates and Kennison, the authors of Meditations note that there is another voice: one of lightness. Ahimsa is the practice of listening to this voice - learning to cultivate and act upon it, so that we may choose to not listen to those darker voices and move toward the vitality and energy of light instead.
We are surrounded by even the smallest elements of darkness daily. And while we have no responsibility or obligation to listen to, or act upon them, we all at times fall down the spiraled path. We are human after all. Yet, what if we could more actively call upon the light? What if we could remember to love ourselves more readily and fully without guilt or judgment? Maybe then others would be more apt to love us in similar manners and we in turn, could love them too.
5:28 AM
no, 11:28 PM.
I still can't sleep.
But I may at least (at most?) take comfort in knowing that I am in the most beautiful state of light. There is an inherent calm and peace that comes from an existence of such heightened self awareness. I wonder if Thoreau felt like this when he went off to the woods to live deliberately? When he sought to suck all the marrow out of life did he come to this place of lightness? Free of judgment or external voices and fear?
My Yoga instructor Melanie says that our greatest misunderstanding is that whatever it is we think we want, or need, or are looking for is something external. But rather, whatever that thing is already exists within. It is simply our responsibility and task to uncover and access that unique element of self. And then we realize what we've known all along: that we are beautiful, powerful, unique beings. Ours are the voices of substance, ours are the hearts filled with love, ours are the minds of complex and valuable matter.
....
So where did I go? It started with a song, and then connected to another lyric which was a piece of another text... And that resonated with a practice and an ideology and a way of life. And now I'm back to this internal investigation which is in a sense, what all of this is really about. (still with me?)
5:52 AM
no, 11:52 PM
Regardless, I'm tired. But I think there's some coherence in there somewhere.
Friday, June 18, 2010
aerosol art
I saw Gandhi on my run this morning.
I turned the corner onto Hollinger Street and there he was. Well, an image of him... some graffiti (graffito?) on a streetlight to be precise.
We exchanged smiles, I kept running, and later made my way back to take his photo. Lucky for me he was still there... seven hours later.
All I know is this: any day beginning with a Gandhi siting is bound to be a good one.
I mean, it's got to be some sort of sign right?
Well, a few more photos for you.
Enjoy.
Aloha for now.
(Each one has to find his peace from within. And peace to be real must be unaffected by outside circumstances. )
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
change of face
Hello friends!
Just a quick note to say that no, you haven't come to the wrong blog! And yes, it's still us! Or me! of softer earth has gotten a bit of an aesthetic overhaul, if you will.
Time is on my side these days, certainly offering a more active outpouring on this front (big cheers for this!). Stay tuned for more links to some of my favorite things, notes on what I'm reading, and other blogs to check out. And of course, more photos too!
Oh! And thanks to you all for the comments and blogging support; I so appreciate your sweet words and following!
Future blog posts are in the works as well...
coming soon to an of softer earth near you.
Until then, I leave you with this:
"If you care about something you have to protect it – If you’re lucky enough to find a way of life you love, you have to find the courage to live it."
— John Irving (A Prayer for Owen Meany)
....
And!
Ear Snacks (musical jams you should totally check out, cause I dig 'em):
Permalight, the latest album by Rogue Wave (feeds my soul in such a beautiful way)
Just a quick note to say that no, you haven't come to the wrong blog! And yes, it's still us! Or me! of softer earth has gotten a bit of an aesthetic overhaul, if you will.
Time is on my side these days, certainly offering a more active outpouring on this front (big cheers for this!). Stay tuned for more links to some of my favorite things, notes on what I'm reading, and other blogs to check out. And of course, more photos too!
Oh! And thanks to you all for the comments and blogging support; I so appreciate your sweet words and following!
Future blog posts are in the works as well...
coming soon to an of softer earth near you.
Until then, I leave you with this:
"If you care about something you have to protect it – If you’re lucky enough to find a way of life you love, you have to find the courage to live it."
— John Irving (A Prayer for Owen Meany)
....
And!
Ear Snacks (musical jams you should totally check out, cause I dig 'em):
Permalight, the latest album by Rogue Wave (feeds my soul in such a beautiful way)
Sunday, June 13, 2010
marrow made of stars
I recently discovered a publication worthy of my loyal following. I suppose I'm quite picky with those magazines, newspapers, and even blogs I read on a regular basis. At the top of my list are The New Yorker and Body and Soul- two magazines to which I subscribe and read quite religiously.
The New Yorker feeds my need to be up to speed on all things artistic, political, and literary. The beauty of this magazine is that I can in fact carry it around for weeks on end and work getting through it at my own pace (those articles are quite long as you might know). Body and Soul is probably one of the best things Martha Stewart could have done with her career. This is a delightful collection of articles on all things I find of interest: food and recipes, yoga, crafts, healthy living, finding inner peace, being green, etc. Any publication that can tell me how to 'get happy' in 5 steps or less is most certainly a friend of mine.
I do also enjoy Martha's magazine Whole Living and much like it I love reading Real Simple. Who doesn't like finding new ways of organizing, decorating, and feng shuing a space? Of course then there's In Style which plays on my most girlie interests in fashion, shoes, make up, and the ever illusive perfect hand bag. Yet, I do not subscribe to any of these publications personally.
When it comes to newspapers I will always pick up a copy of The New York Times where ever seen. Mostly this occurs in Starbucks when I park myself at a corner table, ideally on a drizzly day, drink my vanilla latte and dive into all matters newsworthy. I am a dedicated follower of the Arts section of the Times as it seems to have the most comprehensive and thoughtful reviews of all things visual, literary, and dare I say it 'dance like' art.
Today alone I opened the Times, made a quick turn to the Arts section and was thrilled to see a review of Sam Wasson's book Before She Was Immortal , a look into the contradictions of Breakfast at Tiffany's . The same section reviewed Bonnaroo, the latest installment of Twilight, current break outs in hip-hop, and Balanchine and Ailey's latest works. What other news publication could possibly discuss such an eclectic array of art while also commenting on the World Cup, oil spills, and mineral findings in Afghanistan? Let us not forget the latest trends walking down Broadway either. I love The New York Times.
Now Blogs. I admittedly follow a few blogs anonymously. Many of these were found randomly but a certain post or mastery of words has kept me going back for more. I do follow one blog rather publicly. "Talking to Think" is the blog of a dear friend's mother, who is herself, a dear friend of mine, and a writer of committed thought and intention. She sees beauty and possibility in all places and seems so acutely aware of the goings on surrounding her lovely existence. I cannot help but smile after reading her posts. What a gift that we should be offered such a direct invitation into someones life, finding inspiration in all things no matter how miraculous or common place.
I suppose this brings me to the actual intention of this blog entry. As I mentioned, I recently discovered yet another publication worthy of my loyal following. Before stepping on the plane for Oahu I stocked up on magazines to occupy the hours of flight- "Artful Blogging" being one of them. This magazine has truly transformed me. The magazine, published every three months, is a collection of excerpts from real life blogs. Many of them are in fact visually inspiring, as photographers, painters, and crafters of all kinds post not only verbal thoughts but visual expression and essays. There are blogs spanning generations, countries, and career paths. I've read of relationships, families, and emotional, spiritual journeys. And oh goodness the crafting, decorating, and "home made" art ideas! I am overjoyed. Yet each of these excerpts offer some sort of inspiration not only for my blog, but my life. (Paula, if you're reading this. You must check out this magazine!)
So today, flipping back through the zine I came across an excerpt from swirlygirl.typepad.com. In her partial post Sometimes she writes:
Sometimes you have to travel across an ocean, miles from everything that is familiar to you, from almost everyone you love most, to a place where one person lives, opens her home to you and provides a space of such safety, acceptance, and mindfulness that it is not possible for your heart to do anything but break wide open.
Sometimes you find yourself sitting in a foreign land where the waves crash more thunderously and the wind travels more forcefully, where the color of the sky determines what your day will look like- adventurous trekking over farmland and forest or quiet hours spent examining all the intricacies of who you are, how you've become this, all the ways you've messed up and soared beautifully and why you've chosen to live a life this committed to such intense self-awareness.
Sometimes you sit on the porch of a beach house in a town with a funny name listening to a piece of music, sobbing quietly as the birds flutter around you oblivious to the fact that your heart feels such a profound sense of peace that you think you just might dissolve into a million pieces of light right then and there.
Every journey chance us- every step we take away from our comfort zone is capable of shifting our perspective of the world and our place in it. This journey is no exception, and I will leave a part of myself behind when I return home, experiencing a sense of wholeness I cannot yet articulate, but in my bones tastes like marrow made of stars.
These words resonate so deeply. I feel as if I could have written them or a companion post expressing such similar and familiar sentiments. And it's true, whether here in this magazine, a blog, newspaper article, or card from a friend, sometimes I am so strongly reminded of the power of words. Sometimes the affects of written language are so profound we are never the same. We couldn't possibly be. Today I flipped through this amazing little magazine, stumbled upon this post and was amazed that somewhere, at sometime, someone resembled me so closely it's almost unbelievable. In a really big way, in that tiny little moment, I felt so beautifully connected to someone I've never even met. And today, it's after reading her words that I get to thinking, maybe this little blog of mine is more significant than I let myself believe.
Words have power. Though I suppose it's the people shaping, crafting, and forming them into thoughts and sentences (blog posts perhaps?) ultimately affording them such power. And then in turn, it's the people reading, reflecting, and living in response to those words who also offer the language a weight of its own. That's a pretty incredible thing, really, when you think about it, huh? Pretty incredible.
The New Yorker feeds my need to be up to speed on all things artistic, political, and literary. The beauty of this magazine is that I can in fact carry it around for weeks on end and work getting through it at my own pace (those articles are quite long as you might know). Body and Soul is probably one of the best things Martha Stewart could have done with her career. This is a delightful collection of articles on all things I find of interest: food and recipes, yoga, crafts, healthy living, finding inner peace, being green, etc. Any publication that can tell me how to 'get happy' in 5 steps or less is most certainly a friend of mine.
I do also enjoy Martha's magazine Whole Living and much like it I love reading Real Simple. Who doesn't like finding new ways of organizing, decorating, and feng shuing a space? Of course then there's In Style which plays on my most girlie interests in fashion, shoes, make up, and the ever illusive perfect hand bag. Yet, I do not subscribe to any of these publications personally.
When it comes to newspapers I will always pick up a copy of The New York Times where ever seen. Mostly this occurs in Starbucks when I park myself at a corner table, ideally on a drizzly day, drink my vanilla latte and dive into all matters newsworthy. I am a dedicated follower of the Arts section of the Times as it seems to have the most comprehensive and thoughtful reviews of all things visual, literary, and dare I say it 'dance like' art.
Today alone I opened the Times, made a quick turn to the Arts section and was thrilled to see a review of Sam Wasson's book Before She Was Immortal , a look into the contradictions of Breakfast at Tiffany's . The same section reviewed Bonnaroo, the latest installment of Twilight, current break outs in hip-hop, and Balanchine and Ailey's latest works. What other news publication could possibly discuss such an eclectic array of art while also commenting on the World Cup, oil spills, and mineral findings in Afghanistan? Let us not forget the latest trends walking down Broadway either. I love The New York Times.
Now Blogs. I admittedly follow a few blogs anonymously. Many of these were found randomly but a certain post or mastery of words has kept me going back for more. I do follow one blog rather publicly. "Talking to Think" is the blog of a dear friend's mother, who is herself, a dear friend of mine, and a writer of committed thought and intention. She sees beauty and possibility in all places and seems so acutely aware of the goings on surrounding her lovely existence. I cannot help but smile after reading her posts. What a gift that we should be offered such a direct invitation into someones life, finding inspiration in all things no matter how miraculous or common place.
I suppose this brings me to the actual intention of this blog entry. As I mentioned, I recently discovered yet another publication worthy of my loyal following. Before stepping on the plane for Oahu I stocked up on magazines to occupy the hours of flight- "Artful Blogging" being one of them. This magazine has truly transformed me. The magazine, published every three months, is a collection of excerpts from real life blogs. Many of them are in fact visually inspiring, as photographers, painters, and crafters of all kinds post not only verbal thoughts but visual expression and essays. There are blogs spanning generations, countries, and career paths. I've read of relationships, families, and emotional, spiritual journeys. And oh goodness the crafting, decorating, and "home made" art ideas! I am overjoyed. Yet each of these excerpts offer some sort of inspiration not only for my blog, but my life. (Paula, if you're reading this. You must check out this magazine!)
So today, flipping back through the zine I came across an excerpt from swirlygirl.typepad.com. In her partial post Sometimes she writes:
Sometimes you have to travel across an ocean, miles from everything that is familiar to you, from almost everyone you love most, to a place where one person lives, opens her home to you and provides a space of such safety, acceptance, and mindfulness that it is not possible for your heart to do anything but break wide open.
Sometimes you find yourself sitting in a foreign land where the waves crash more thunderously and the wind travels more forcefully, where the color of the sky determines what your day will look like- adventurous trekking over farmland and forest or quiet hours spent examining all the intricacies of who you are, how you've become this, all the ways you've messed up and soared beautifully and why you've chosen to live a life this committed to such intense self-awareness.
Sometimes you sit on the porch of a beach house in a town with a funny name listening to a piece of music, sobbing quietly as the birds flutter around you oblivious to the fact that your heart feels such a profound sense of peace that you think you just might dissolve into a million pieces of light right then and there.
Every journey chance us- every step we take away from our comfort zone is capable of shifting our perspective of the world and our place in it. This journey is no exception, and I will leave a part of myself behind when I return home, experiencing a sense of wholeness I cannot yet articulate, but in my bones tastes like marrow made of stars.
These words resonate so deeply. I feel as if I could have written them or a companion post expressing such similar and familiar sentiments. And it's true, whether here in this magazine, a blog, newspaper article, or card from a friend, sometimes I am so strongly reminded of the power of words. Sometimes the affects of written language are so profound we are never the same. We couldn't possibly be. Today I flipped through this amazing little magazine, stumbled upon this post and was amazed that somewhere, at sometime, someone resembled me so closely it's almost unbelievable. In a really big way, in that tiny little moment, I felt so beautifully connected to someone I've never even met. And today, it's after reading her words that I get to thinking, maybe this little blog of mine is more significant than I let myself believe.
Words have power. Though I suppose it's the people shaping, crafting, and forming them into thoughts and sentences (blog posts perhaps?) ultimately affording them such power. And then in turn, it's the people reading, reflecting, and living in response to those words who also offer the language a weight of its own. That's a pretty incredible thing, really, when you think about it, huh? Pretty incredible.
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