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?
Friday, June 25, 2010
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.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Tangled up in Blue
Friends! I've finally put up some of my photography from the first two weeks in Hawaii. Please check out my Picasa Web Album and check here for more updates!
(Have been having some difficulty with the photo link... if it ain't workin' try this:
http://picasaweb.google.com/elizabeth.dawson4/TangledUpInBlueHawaii?authkey=Gv1sRgCKOrt4Otl73zuwE#
Nothing Better
"there is nothing better than the encouragement of a good friend."
There is nothing better than the encouragement of a good friend, especially when it comes via good ol' fashioned snail mail on a bright, sunny afternoon.
There is nothing better than opening up the mailbox and finding love infused paper pieces from the people who know you best...even if you are in fact oceans and hours and temperatures apart.
Thanks, Shea.
You're a peach.
:-)
Friday, June 11, 2010
Stumbling Upon
Funny I should stumble upon an article regarding apricots this morning.
(These apricots here were found at a market in Bordeaux while backpacking last summer)
I clicked on the "stumble upon" link on my web browser, a funny little application I discovered in college. "Stumble Upon" takes a quick survey of your interests and traits, then you're off to stumble freely as the app takes you on a ride from site to site. Anything and everything that may be of potential interest for you is up for stumbling upon.
I've often found myself creating recipes from the 4 random contents in my fridge, reading travel blogs of young adventurers who've made their way to Brazil or Singapore, and even making a visit to Etsy- the site for those artistically savvy individuals looking to sell homemade jewelry and lamps made out of wine bottles and recycled coffee cans.
Some mornings are just designed for stumbling. And on those mornings or in this case, afternoons, when I'm a bit under due to what appears to be a cold, and perhaps even a faint of heart, I take the simple click and set my sights on what new wonder I'll come across today.
Funny I should stumble upon an article regarding apricots. I hate apricots. Peaches, even nectarines, yes. But apricots, not so much. I do however have a passion for dried apricots. I am obsessed. They're in my top five. I purchase my favorite little floral designed bag from, you guessed it, Trader Joe's. They are my favorite snack. I love dried apricots. (Mom, if you're reading this... hint hint...send some my way?)
The article went into the life of the apricot in ancient Armenia (gosh I love alliteration), its cultivation in Greece during the time of Alexander the Great, and even in China, Australia, Iran, and Tasmania. Most US Apricots come from California, which I suppose is not so surprising, but even Washington and Utah. Yet Turkey is the leading producer of apricots today. Hence the Turkish adage, "an apricot tree will not grow far from the mother tree." I'm not completely sure what that means.
The Chinese cling to apricots in terms of medicine and education. Apparently Chinese philosophers use a classical word commonly in written language meaning "educational circle", its literal translation, "apricot altar." Some story circulates about Confucius teaching his students in one such educational circle surrounded by Apricot trees.
Nonetheless I like the Turkish idiom, "bundan iyisi Şam'da kayisi," literally meaning, "the only thing better than this is an apricot in Damascus." Today meaning, "it doesn't get any better than this." I take it the Turkish get what I mean when I rave about the deliciousness of a dried apricot...about the wondrous affect such sweetness can have on the spirit (hmm I sound like Shea talking about food). Sometimes there's just nothing better. Though here I've had no apricots... pineapple and mango and peaches seem a bit more popular. Oh and avacado.
Did I really just write a post about apricots? Ha! I think I could write a whole entry on my love of produce in general. Not sure who'd want to read that one though.
Well, till next time.
I'm off to walk the sand and get tangled up in blue.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
"There is no deadline, there is no schedule"
So I'm trying to let myself be okay with just being, and allowing, and taking the time to give my soul some time to breathe. I got so caught up working so much over the last year that I think I kind of forgot how to let go and just be. Funny how we feel guilty when we're not working or doing something "productive." But who's to say that spending the day taking yoga, going for walks, reading good books and writing isn't productive? Who's to say that contemplating the ocean's immensity (like here at Kailua Beach), getting lost in the delicious hues of a sunset, or planting an intention and sending it out into the universe is not beneficial to the human spirit?
I think it's a strength of character thing, you know?
I already feel like this more grounded person. Like I've become reacquainted with myself, which is in fact a very lovely thing. I suppose you just have to accept that within this reacquainting comes a negotiation with loneliness, with fear, with depression, and perhaps a little sadness. Yet with this reacquainting comes new found strength, and interest, and heart.
I keep coming back to Elizabeth Gilbert. Eat, Pray, Love has been a Bible of sorts as I personally don't cling to any organized religious practices. But this book, her journey, and an incredible mastery of words are like shining beacons in the dark... as if Gilbert herself is guiding me, affirming my thoughts, validating my emotions. I feel a little less alone with her around.
And so today I think as Gilbert thinks:
"But is it such a bad thing to live like this for just a little while? Just for a few months of one's life, is it so awful to...nap in a garden, in a patch of sunlight, in the middle of the day, right next to your favorite fountain? And then to do it again the next day?"
(Eat, Pray, Love)
.....
On another note I must share some new music that is truly rockin' my spirit (and thanks to a few contributors for some of these new discoveries...you know who you are):
anything by The Mountain Goats, but "Tallahassee" in particular
"Streetlight" by Joshua Radin
"Uncle's Sweetheart, Pt. 2" by Madeline
"Fables" by the Dodos
"Tighten Up" by the Black Keys, though their entire new album Brothers is enough to get even the most sullen truly amped.
"You and Your Heart" by Jack Johnson
"Danger! High Voltage" by The Electric Six (again, only for those looking to get pumped)
"Dance So Good" by Wakey! Wakey! (but really, anything on this album as well)
"Passion Play" by William Fitzsimmons
"Corner" by Allie Moss
"Timsehl" by Mumford and Sons (this is the tune I play while taking in the sunset and waves at the end of the day)
For now, check out the ear snacks and let me know your thoughts.
And for later, just know that somewhere, at some time, there are positive energies being tossed into the universe for you. Yes, you.
Most of the time we don't even know it.
But it's really happening.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
George Street
For the past week I have been convinced that our next door neighbor does not like me. Not that she'd have sound or just reason for such dislike, yet dislike nonetheless.
I would smile.
Nothing.
A wave.
Nothing.
I even offered some chocolate chip cookies when the 'need to bake' frenzy ensued.
"I don't really eat sugar. Or butter," she replied.
So I took to the notion that perhaps she and I would never exactly be friends. Or maybe some people just aren't as quick to become pals as I would like, having just moved here and all.
Opal, the two year old living just behind us became a fast friend. She walks over to the steps of the back door just coming out of our kitchen and we play a game of 'toss the ball.' It's mostly toss, very little catch, and a whole lot of bouncing that sphere of rubber off my legs while Opal laughs. Yet, she's one of the most precious and precocious two year olds I've yet to meet; I think she'll basically talk to anyone.
But not the neighbor next door. A
And I was beginning to feel guilty that I still don't know her name.
But then tonight, I returned from yoga in an ultimate Namaste high. I sat myself down on our makeshift lanai to eat some dinner while I continued reading A Prayer for Owen Meaney (excellent novel, by the way). And I was content. I planted the seed of my intention to seek self approval, to allow myself a calm, serene, grateful existence. I asked my heart to soften and the outer edges of my being to let in light and chi and prana. (I know what you're thinking: sitting and sweating and posing on a little purple mat can beg one to do all this? The answer is yes. Yes it can.)
Nonetheless, just as I sat down, out walked my neighbor. She is a seemingly sweet older woman with jet black hair and glasses that rest nearly on the tip of her nose. She has to tilt her head just slightly to look at you over the rim of the frame. She paced back and forth along the line of plants and flowers marking where her property ends and ours begins. And then, rather intensely, she began pulling out the weeds that had draped over her precious blossoms.
I watched her.
She then looked up at me and said, "These weeds are just terrible. They create a canopy over everything you want to bloom."
I took a moment before responding- partly because of the general surprise that my neighbor was in fact talking to me, and partly because in a way, what she had said seemed like this grand metaphor worthy of a thoughtful response.
"Oh that's awful," I said.
She looked back up at me. And for the briefest of seconds we just looked at one another. And then:
"It's funny how nature will even work against itself," I said.
She kept looking at me.
And then came the unexpected.
A smile.
And she just kept looking and smiling and eventually shook her head with a chuckle as older folks sometimes do when something really gets them.
Then she waved her hand and turned to walk back up the steps into her house.
So I'm beginning to think she doesn't hate me anymore.
Although I think I'm going to have to change this whole 'no butter' thing.
But not just yet...
one weed at a time.
I would smile.
Nothing.
A wave.
Nothing.
I even offered some chocolate chip cookies when the 'need to bake' frenzy ensued.
"I don't really eat sugar. Or butter," she replied.
So I took to the notion that perhaps she and I would never exactly be friends. Or maybe some people just aren't as quick to become pals as I would like, having just moved here and all.
Opal, the two year old living just behind us became a fast friend. She walks over to the steps of the back door just coming out of our kitchen and we play a game of 'toss the ball.' It's mostly toss, very little catch, and a whole lot of bouncing that sphere of rubber off my legs while Opal laughs. Yet, she's one of the most precious and precocious two year olds I've yet to meet; I think she'll basically talk to anyone.
But not the neighbor next door. A
And I was beginning to feel guilty that I still don't know her name.
But then tonight, I returned from yoga in an ultimate Namaste high. I sat myself down on our makeshift lanai to eat some dinner while I continued reading A Prayer for Owen Meaney (excellent novel, by the way). And I was content. I planted the seed of my intention to seek self approval, to allow myself a calm, serene, grateful existence. I asked my heart to soften and the outer edges of my being to let in light and chi and prana. (I know what you're thinking: sitting and sweating and posing on a little purple mat can beg one to do all this? The answer is yes. Yes it can.)
Nonetheless, just as I sat down, out walked my neighbor. She is a seemingly sweet older woman with jet black hair and glasses that rest nearly on the tip of her nose. She has to tilt her head just slightly to look at you over the rim of the frame. She paced back and forth along the line of plants and flowers marking where her property ends and ours begins. And then, rather intensely, she began pulling out the weeds that had draped over her precious blossoms.
I watched her.
She then looked up at me and said, "These weeds are just terrible. They create a canopy over everything you want to bloom."
I took a moment before responding- partly because of the general surprise that my neighbor was in fact talking to me, and partly because in a way, what she had said seemed like this grand metaphor worthy of a thoughtful response.
"Oh that's awful," I said.
She looked back up at me. And for the briefest of seconds we just looked at one another. And then:
"It's funny how nature will even work against itself," I said.
She kept looking at me.
And then came the unexpected.
A smile.
And she just kept looking and smiling and eventually shook her head with a chuckle as older folks sometimes do when something really gets them.
Then she waved her hand and turned to walk back up the steps into her house.
So I'm beginning to think she doesn't hate me anymore.
Although I think I'm going to have to change this whole 'no butter' thing.
But not just yet...
one weed at a time.
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