42
here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your (in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain
and here's to silent certainly mountains, and to
a disappearing poet of always, snow
and to morning; and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight (and a first dream called ocean) and
let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks, nor dares to feel (but up
with joy; and up with laughing and drunkenness)
here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skills each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon
- e.e. cummings
...........................
Well kids, I'm officially moving to Hawaii! May 26th I'll be taking that 17 hour flight over to the Pacific side of things to spend a glorious seven months (if not longer) living on Oahu. Kind of amazing actually... thrilling and terrifying and utterly fantastic. It's 2010 after all, right? More to come...
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
horizon
I'm not sure I believe that everything happens for a reason. It implies that there's some grand, master plan we have no control over- that perhaps notions like fate and destiny exist outside of the fictional realms of film and literature. I'm not sure I can believe in such notions that allude to the fact of us actually having less control over our lives than we think. And yet, there are these incredibly illuminated moments when it feels like the universe is revealing itself to me in some unmistakable way. And in said moments I can't help but feel like everything happens for a reason...that the universe presents us with signs to interpret and so unfolds the course of our very existence.
But then again... is it possible that some divine mysticism in the universe has some Oracle like knowledge of our mind's intent, our soul's passion, our will's need or desire? Or rather, do we seek out 'signs' as means of rationalizing the decisions we believe to be the best or right ones for us. Because our hearts are so intent in feeling truth, yet our minds seek to play a sort of devil's advocate, do we look for support and comfort in the world around us? Do we create the signs ourselves? Do we become the revealers of our own universes?
And rather than signs being laid in front of us, it is our hearts being that much more in tune with what they really want- that we're simply more aware, senses heightened to all of the stimuli around us. And so we notice the calendar in Office Depot or the TV movie set in a certain location, or the countless newspaper articles and song lyrics and profound encounters with strangers that all point so clearly straight ahead to this choice we've been struggling to make... because you think in some way, because the people you love most don't support it, that it could be the wrong one. When really, maybe this is the moment you have to choose selfishness, and realize that the only voice that truly matters is your own. And when you have trust and faith in your own intuition and sound moral compass, how could any decision you feel so passionate about be wrong?
In a way, everything does happen for a reason. I suppose it has to. Otherwise, all this is simply chaos personified. Which, I suppose is also a possibility. But being creatures of comfort we cling to the belief that all these events and circumstances, the people who fade in and out, are all of some value or purpose. Because if they're not, and if we're not, then why are we here? And what's all this for?
I may be making some terrific mistake. But even if I am, at least it's of my own making. And in reality, years from now when I'm actually grown up and feel like I've settled into this so-called "adulthood" I like to think I'll look back on this moment in my life and feel little regret. Because at the very least, I was making my own decisions... with passion and purity of heart. And beyond that, I'm not sure what else really matters.
But then again... is it possible that some divine mysticism in the universe has some Oracle like knowledge of our mind's intent, our soul's passion, our will's need or desire? Or rather, do we seek out 'signs' as means of rationalizing the decisions we believe to be the best or right ones for us. Because our hearts are so intent in feeling truth, yet our minds seek to play a sort of devil's advocate, do we look for support and comfort in the world around us? Do we create the signs ourselves? Do we become the revealers of our own universes?
And rather than signs being laid in front of us, it is our hearts being that much more in tune with what they really want- that we're simply more aware, senses heightened to all of the stimuli around us. And so we notice the calendar in Office Depot or the TV movie set in a certain location, or the countless newspaper articles and song lyrics and profound encounters with strangers that all point so clearly straight ahead to this choice we've been struggling to make... because you think in some way, because the people you love most don't support it, that it could be the wrong one. When really, maybe this is the moment you have to choose selfishness, and realize that the only voice that truly matters is your own. And when you have trust and faith in your own intuition and sound moral compass, how could any decision you feel so passionate about be wrong?
In a way, everything does happen for a reason. I suppose it has to. Otherwise, all this is simply chaos personified. Which, I suppose is also a possibility. But being creatures of comfort we cling to the belief that all these events and circumstances, the people who fade in and out, are all of some value or purpose. Because if they're not, and if we're not, then why are we here? And what's all this for?
I may be making some terrific mistake. But even if I am, at least it's of my own making. And in reality, years from now when I'm actually grown up and feel like I've settled into this so-called "adulthood" I like to think I'll look back on this moment in my life and feel little regret. Because at the very least, I was making my own decisions... with passion and purity of heart. And beyond that, I'm not sure what else really matters.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
the perfect space
I am in love with oak trees. Maybe it's something to do with this stability of roots finding counterpart in a seemingly infinite expanse. They say an oak can live 200 years or more. Maybe it's the feeling that something of beauty in the natural world can, in a way, withstand the test of time.
The ancient Romans saw the oak tree as a symbol of strength and power. They believed oaks attracted lightening and thus were connected to Juno, god of the sky. In turn his wife, Jupiter, goddess of marriage, made the oak to be a symbol of commitment and fidelity. The Druids believed the oak had the power to renew and heal, while Socrates saw the oak tree as an oracle.
I think maybe Socrates had it right.
There is something so inherently divine and all knowing about this immense tree. Maybe it's the immensity... its ability to simultaneously inject one with excitement, hope, and fear. It's as if the grand oak holds onto the impressions of life... the children who've attempted to climb its thick branches, the seasons of autumn and winter which transformed color and stripped leaves, the lovers nestling under its shade on warm summer days.
It's something out of a Robert Frost poem.
Though I suppose Frost spoke of Birch trees, a symbol of new beginnings and vision quests. Perhaps the sister tree to the likes of an oak, more so the great grandfather, observer, quietly absorbing moments and memories and seasons of human kind worshiping beneath its hearty limbs and fallen acorns.
I am in love with oak trees. It's something about this vast expanse. This endurance. As if such a structure is meant to be honored. The oak is powerful. The oak affirms life in a way. And maybe it's my need to find stability and strength in my own life that compels me toward oaks. Maybe the universe is sending me in that direction very purposefully.
In John's Island, South Carolina there is an Angel Oak Tree... nearly 1500 years old. It's said to be one of the oldest living things east of the Mississippi. I officially want to see this tree before I die. Or rather, before it does. It's survived hurricanes, earthquakes, floods, and perhaps worst of all- humanity. What an incredible testament to the capacity of nature and living things. I don't know, I'm just so taken with these things...
.......
The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a
green thing that stands in the way. Some see Nature all ridicule and
deformity, and some scarce see Nature at all. But to the eyes of the
man of imagination, Nature is Imagination itself.
- William Blake, 1799, The Letters
.......
(
current soundtrack: Avett Brothers, The Perfect Space
currently reading: A Prayer for Owen Meany
currently...lost
)
The ancient Romans saw the oak tree as a symbol of strength and power. They believed oaks attracted lightening and thus were connected to Juno, god of the sky. In turn his wife, Jupiter, goddess of marriage, made the oak to be a symbol of commitment and fidelity. The Druids believed the oak had the power to renew and heal, while Socrates saw the oak tree as an oracle.
I think maybe Socrates had it right.
There is something so inherently divine and all knowing about this immense tree. Maybe it's the immensity... its ability to simultaneously inject one with excitement, hope, and fear. It's as if the grand oak holds onto the impressions of life... the children who've attempted to climb its thick branches, the seasons of autumn and winter which transformed color and stripped leaves, the lovers nestling under its shade on warm summer days.
It's something out of a Robert Frost poem.
Though I suppose Frost spoke of Birch trees, a symbol of new beginnings and vision quests. Perhaps the sister tree to the likes of an oak, more so the great grandfather, observer, quietly absorbing moments and memories and seasons of human kind worshiping beneath its hearty limbs and fallen acorns.
I am in love with oak trees. It's something about this vast expanse. This endurance. As if such a structure is meant to be honored. The oak is powerful. The oak affirms life in a way. And maybe it's my need to find stability and strength in my own life that compels me toward oaks. Maybe the universe is sending me in that direction very purposefully.
In John's Island, South Carolina there is an Angel Oak Tree... nearly 1500 years old. It's said to be one of the oldest living things east of the Mississippi. I officially want to see this tree before I die. Or rather, before it does. It's survived hurricanes, earthquakes, floods, and perhaps worst of all- humanity. What an incredible testament to the capacity of nature and living things. I don't know, I'm just so taken with these things...
.......
The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a
green thing that stands in the way. Some see Nature all ridicule and
deformity, and some scarce see Nature at all. But to the eyes of the
man of imagination, Nature is Imagination itself.
- William Blake, 1799, The Letters
.......
(
current soundtrack: Avett Brothers, The Perfect Space
currently reading: A Prayer for Owen Meany
currently...lost
)
Thursday, December 24, 2009
maybe all before this was fallacy
I think it happened somewhere amidst standing over the kitchen counter in the dark, eating cold spaghetti from a glad-ware container at 1 o'clock in the morning. Maybe that was the moment. The moment being the precise collection of seconds in which I realized the all together precarious and ridiculous state of my life. Somewhere in between the rapture of tomato and basil came this flash of images- pictures of me and my life and the people so colorfully populating it. And we were swimming, or rather floating. These tiny caricatures in my head attempting simply to stay afloat and failing to grasp at anything concrete.
Void of all stability.
Tempting fate and a drowning demise.
Here I stood, in my parent's kitchen, in a house that no longer felt like my own, eating cold spaghetti in the dark. It was all I could do to take this sharply close look at my life... at the very real and bizarre circumstance in which I now found myself. All I could see was a young woman, seemingly accomplished and of various interest and skill, yet completely and utterly lost in the immensity. The immensity of life and the universe and all its divine, cosmic and fate driven notions was holding me hostage. And for the first recognizable time in my life I couldn't uncover the strength to fight the immensity back. All I could see was this reflection of someone I didn't even know.
And I feel like I should have cried. As a highly emotional individual- one who sobs at Hallmark commercials and hot dog advertisements- all signs point to my inevitable tear shed. And yet, nothing. I felt as though I should have cried like a young girl learning the fictional reality of her beloved Santa Claus, or a 15 year old experiencing heartbreak for the first time. Nothing. I would have even settled for an outburst of obscenity or a rush of inappropriate laughter. I was in fact, so remarkably unprepared for what occurred next. I simply stood staring at a tiny crack in the hardwood floor. Perhaps a tomato and basil induced coma had set in leaving little to no room for an intensely emotional reaction. So I simply stood there for another good 30 seconds before putting the blue plastic lid back on my mother's spaghetti and went to my room.
...A man once told me that you can bloom where you're planted. We stood in front of a wall of cheese I was so expertly mongering at Trader Joe's when he said to me, "You can bloom where you're planted." I suppose this is a fact perhaps one comes to terms with later in life, once you've moved away from a place or seen the edge of something new. And upon returning to that place where you began you find that you could have stayed there all along. You could have grown into something or someone of just as much substance and interest. You can bloom where you're planted.
But then I think that I could just spend a lifetime floating... through space and time, between oceans and continents and cups of coffee, hiking paths and perfectly delicious kisses, old pairs of sweatpants and borrowed boyfriend t-shirts, dance studios, yoga studios, black and white photographs, endless Sunday mornings and farmer's markets, fresh peaches, hand holding, long distant phone calls and laughter, art, cardboard boxes, audrey hepburn films, and moments that pull you back into your body while simultaneously tossing you out into other dimensions and worlds and colors... I want to believe that I can bloom where I've been planted. But not yet. I am far too close to the drowning demise of an over watered houseplant or the perfect sunflower caught in an April monsoon. Perhaps this man forgot to also mention that one too can bloom where you're uprooted and re-planted. Or maybe said plant may live in a beautifully crafted pot allowing it to move and live in all kinds of homes and landscapes before being settled back into solid earth. Perhaps we can master this simultaneous planting and floating to offer room for adventure and discovery while still being at home in the world?
They don't teach you that in college. They don't teach you that anywhere really... how to be at home in the world. It's like one day you wake up and realize that you're living a life you never thought you would ever possibly be living. Leaving all judgement out of the equation, it's just that you never imagined your life would look as it does. And no one ever told you how to make the transition from perpetual student and academic artist to real life person. And not to say that anyone was supposed to. But, how can you make this transition into figuring out who you really are and what you really want when essentially, nothing in your life up until this point has actually prepared you for making such decisions. Maybe all before this was fallacy. Maybe we were all just playing at pretend hoping that when reality set in we just wouldn't notice?
At least I may take tiny comfort in knowing that for as long as I've been alive, my mother's spaghetti has always been delicious. This is a fact in which I hold complete faith and know will forever be truth. Especially cold... at 1 o'clock in the morning.
Currently seeking out other small comforts to make it through another week.
I promise it won't be so long between posts next time.
-L
Void of all stability.
Tempting fate and a drowning demise.
Here I stood, in my parent's kitchen, in a house that no longer felt like my own, eating cold spaghetti in the dark. It was all I could do to take this sharply close look at my life... at the very real and bizarre circumstance in which I now found myself. All I could see was a young woman, seemingly accomplished and of various interest and skill, yet completely and utterly lost in the immensity. The immensity of life and the universe and all its divine, cosmic and fate driven notions was holding me hostage. And for the first recognizable time in my life I couldn't uncover the strength to fight the immensity back. All I could see was this reflection of someone I didn't even know.
And I feel like I should have cried. As a highly emotional individual- one who sobs at Hallmark commercials and hot dog advertisements- all signs point to my inevitable tear shed. And yet, nothing. I felt as though I should have cried like a young girl learning the fictional reality of her beloved Santa Claus, or a 15 year old experiencing heartbreak for the first time. Nothing. I would have even settled for an outburst of obscenity or a rush of inappropriate laughter. I was in fact, so remarkably unprepared for what occurred next. I simply stood staring at a tiny crack in the hardwood floor. Perhaps a tomato and basil induced coma had set in leaving little to no room for an intensely emotional reaction. So I simply stood there for another good 30 seconds before putting the blue plastic lid back on my mother's spaghetti and went to my room.
...A man once told me that you can bloom where you're planted. We stood in front of a wall of cheese I was so expertly mongering at Trader Joe's when he said to me, "You can bloom where you're planted." I suppose this is a fact perhaps one comes to terms with later in life, once you've moved away from a place or seen the edge of something new. And upon returning to that place where you began you find that you could have stayed there all along. You could have grown into something or someone of just as much substance and interest. You can bloom where you're planted.
But then I think that I could just spend a lifetime floating... through space and time, between oceans and continents and cups of coffee, hiking paths and perfectly delicious kisses, old pairs of sweatpants and borrowed boyfriend t-shirts, dance studios, yoga studios, black and white photographs, endless Sunday mornings and farmer's markets, fresh peaches, hand holding, long distant phone calls and laughter, art, cardboard boxes, audrey hepburn films, and moments that pull you back into your body while simultaneously tossing you out into other dimensions and worlds and colors... I want to believe that I can bloom where I've been planted. But not yet. I am far too close to the drowning demise of an over watered houseplant or the perfect sunflower caught in an April monsoon. Perhaps this man forgot to also mention that one too can bloom where you're uprooted and re-planted. Or maybe said plant may live in a beautifully crafted pot allowing it to move and live in all kinds of homes and landscapes before being settled back into solid earth. Perhaps we can master this simultaneous planting and floating to offer room for adventure and discovery while still being at home in the world?
They don't teach you that in college. They don't teach you that anywhere really... how to be at home in the world. It's like one day you wake up and realize that you're living a life you never thought you would ever possibly be living. Leaving all judgement out of the equation, it's just that you never imagined your life would look as it does. And no one ever told you how to make the transition from perpetual student and academic artist to real life person. And not to say that anyone was supposed to. But, how can you make this transition into figuring out who you really are and what you really want when essentially, nothing in your life up until this point has actually prepared you for making such decisions. Maybe all before this was fallacy. Maybe we were all just playing at pretend hoping that when reality set in we just wouldn't notice?
At least I may take tiny comfort in knowing that for as long as I've been alive, my mother's spaghetti has always been delicious. This is a fact in which I hold complete faith and know will forever be truth. Especially cold... at 1 o'clock in the morning.
Currently seeking out other small comforts to make it through another week.
I promise it won't be so long between posts next time.
-L
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Lately I've been giving a bit of thought to the secret lives we keep. More like, if our lives were to be considered a soundtrack- a composition of melodic stories and cover art, they too would contain hidden tracks. What elements of our lives do we keep hidden, perhaps protected? What, if anything, do we keep purely for ourselves and no one else?
Surely we must all have those ritual practices... those exercises that make us feel a little more like ourselves, a little more alive or at peace. And maybe it's the child like play: singing into hairbrushes and practicing our air guitar, acting out scenes from the make believe film that we see as our life. Maybe we're all just living Pinocchios and Peter Pans, challenging a world requiring us to grow up and become certain things. And perhaps we're all playing at something in these secret little lives we keep- these hidden tracks intended for our ears only. Because at the end of the day, we can only fully know ourselves. And regardless of how complicated or confused or essentially screwed up we are, there's a kind of comfort in these hidden moments. In these hidden moments we are the most authentic versions of ourselves, and most of the time, it's easier to share that truest form in the private delicacy of our make believe realms.
Someone once told me that not everything is meant to be shared with others. Some things are meant to be saved and kept for ourselves. And just ourselves. But then I wonder, in finding love or a life's companion, how much of that sacred space do we give up, or rather share with another? Do we in fact end up melding these two lives into a twisting web of its own making? Or can we actually hold onto those hidden tracks while still giving fully and vulnerably to another? At what point are we with holding from someone else in attempts to keep things so intimately our own?
We write in journals, day dream and create fictional stories whether in our minds or on paper... we have revelations and thoughts of significance... and perhaps the difference is recognizing the moments in which something has greater value only when shared with another versus being complete on its own... with only me having come to know of it.
I guess it just feels like a struggle- to hold onto things that are so completely and uniquely yours. Especially in a world where we're so set on making connections and fostering relationships. I'm not sure how you negotiate the two.
Anyway, more to come...
Surely we must all have those ritual practices... those exercises that make us feel a little more like ourselves, a little more alive or at peace. And maybe it's the child like play: singing into hairbrushes and practicing our air guitar, acting out scenes from the make believe film that we see as our life. Maybe we're all just living Pinocchios and Peter Pans, challenging a world requiring us to grow up and become certain things. And perhaps we're all playing at something in these secret little lives we keep- these hidden tracks intended for our ears only. Because at the end of the day, we can only fully know ourselves. And regardless of how complicated or confused or essentially screwed up we are, there's a kind of comfort in these hidden moments. In these hidden moments we are the most authentic versions of ourselves, and most of the time, it's easier to share that truest form in the private delicacy of our make believe realms.
Someone once told me that not everything is meant to be shared with others. Some things are meant to be saved and kept for ourselves. And just ourselves. But then I wonder, in finding love or a life's companion, how much of that sacred space do we give up, or rather share with another? Do we in fact end up melding these two lives into a twisting web of its own making? Or can we actually hold onto those hidden tracks while still giving fully and vulnerably to another? At what point are we with holding from someone else in attempts to keep things so intimately our own?
We write in journals, day dream and create fictional stories whether in our minds or on paper... we have revelations and thoughts of significance... and perhaps the difference is recognizing the moments in which something has greater value only when shared with another versus being complete on its own... with only me having come to know of it.
I guess it just feels like a struggle- to hold onto things that are so completely and uniquely yours. Especially in a world where we're so set on making connections and fostering relationships. I'm not sure how you negotiate the two.
Anyway, more to come...
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
I and Love and You
It's kind of funny. The way life works out. The way people surprise you in even the simplest of ways. How a letter or a phone call can seemingly change the course of your very existence. I think it's something about the power of words. Or maybe it's more the people saying them. For a time I've attached myself to this theory that words are not enough. That words actually carry very little weight. They're empty. Because no words can fully encompass all that someone is or what they mean to us. No words can truly encapsulate the depths of emotion. Only we can comprehend our feelings- their immensity and shape.
Yet we grasp at alike words: happy, sad, love, fear... and think that we each mean to express similar sentiments when in actuality, that's impossible. In actuality, we have no way of knowing the capacity of another to feel happy or sad, to fear, to love. Yet in clinging to these words one has to believe that we at least move in like minded directions. That my 'love' could not be so off course from that of another. That your 'happiness' sits close to mine if not so neatly beside it.
But, I suppose aside from action, from the physical depictions of emotion, words are sort of all we've got. So it's no wonder that relationships become so complicated. You'd think they could be simple. You'd think that at our very core, human beings are actually quite simple. We all want and need the same basic things. We're just struggling to understand one another's words... how we express our needs or desires for those common necessities. We dance around ideas, bull shit, lie, pretend... we use and abuse a language so expertly devised to simply tell the truth. And find ourselves wondering why these things are all so complicated.
Well then maybe it's not the words themselves, but really the people saying them. It's how one's emotions and thought and intent manifest themselves inside the framework of words. How one can shape or manipulate or color those common words to mean what he or she needs them to mean...
The Avett Brother's have a song called "I and Love and You." It's my latest obsession. Maybe it's their struggle with words that rings home. Check it out, friends. And until next time...
Load the car and write the note
Grab your bag and grab your coat
Tell ones that need to know
We are headed north
All one foot in and one foot back
But it don't pay, to live like that
So I cut the ties and I jumped the tracks
For never to return
Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Are you aware the shape I'm in
My hands they shake my head it spins
Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
When at first I learned to speak
I used all my words to fight
With him and her and you and me
Oh it's just a waste of time
It's such a waste of time
That women shes got eyes that shine
Like a pair of stolen polished dimes
She asked to dance I said it's fine
I'll see you in the morning time
Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Are you aware the shape I'm in
My hands they shake my head it spins
Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Three words that became hard to say
I and love and you
What you were then I am today
Look at the things I do
Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Are you aware the shape I'm in
My hands they shake my head it spins
Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Dumbed down and numbed by time and age
You dreams to catch this world the cage
The highway sets the travelers stage
All exits look the same
Three words that became hard to say
I and love and you
I and love and you
I and love and you
Yet we grasp at alike words: happy, sad, love, fear... and think that we each mean to express similar sentiments when in actuality, that's impossible. In actuality, we have no way of knowing the capacity of another to feel happy or sad, to fear, to love. Yet in clinging to these words one has to believe that we at least move in like minded directions. That my 'love' could not be so off course from that of another. That your 'happiness' sits close to mine if not so neatly beside it.
But, I suppose aside from action, from the physical depictions of emotion, words are sort of all we've got. So it's no wonder that relationships become so complicated. You'd think they could be simple. You'd think that at our very core, human beings are actually quite simple. We all want and need the same basic things. We're just struggling to understand one another's words... how we express our needs or desires for those common necessities. We dance around ideas, bull shit, lie, pretend... we use and abuse a language so expertly devised to simply tell the truth. And find ourselves wondering why these things are all so complicated.
Well then maybe it's not the words themselves, but really the people saying them. It's how one's emotions and thought and intent manifest themselves inside the framework of words. How one can shape or manipulate or color those common words to mean what he or she needs them to mean...
The Avett Brother's have a song called "I and Love and You." It's my latest obsession. Maybe it's their struggle with words that rings home. Check it out, friends. And until next time...
Load the car and write the note
Grab your bag and grab your coat
Tell ones that need to know
We are headed north
All one foot in and one foot back
But it don't pay, to live like that
So I cut the ties and I jumped the tracks
For never to return
Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Are you aware the shape I'm in
My hands they shake my head it spins
Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
When at first I learned to speak
I used all my words to fight
With him and her and you and me
Oh it's just a waste of time
It's such a waste of time
That women shes got eyes that shine
Like a pair of stolen polished dimes
She asked to dance I said it's fine
I'll see you in the morning time
Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Are you aware the shape I'm in
My hands they shake my head it spins
Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Three words that became hard to say
I and love and you
What you were then I am today
Look at the things I do
Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Are you aware the shape I'm in
My hands they shake my head it spins
Brooklyn Brooklyn take me in
Dumbed down and numbed by time and age
You dreams to catch this world the cage
The highway sets the travelers stage
All exits look the same
Three words that became hard to say
I and love and you
I and love and you
I and love and you
Sunday, October 25, 2009
every morning the maple leaves
I love Sunday walks in the park with Noel. Noel is my soon to be 8 year old pup- a sheltie mix of sorts we happily rescued from a shelter on the Eastern Shore those many Christmases ago. And I suppose I just love walks in the park in early Autumn, as colors begin changing: the mix of red, orange, yellow, and greens taking over a tree infused landscape. I stop when Noel stops- pausing to take in the smells of grass, trees, and the crispness of Fall. I think there's a sort of vitality in the air of Autumn. We are awakened and brought into a deeper, more heightened sense of experience. The senses illuminate in a way that can only happen in these months of October and November, with a sweet dog by your side, reminding you to slow down and take moments to pause every now and then. And I get to thinking about Elizabeth Bennet- the pensive and stubborn character Austen so expertly created... a lover of walking, much like myself. And I begin wondering if perhaps Austen imagined Bennet's experience of walking to be something like this- a meditation of sorts, taking in the colors, smells, and sounds of this outward place, dreaming of chance encounters while allowing a moment for reflection and self introspection. One can find a sense of peace while walking, and ideally when walking in a physically beautiful place.
So I got to thinking about walking in a city like New York- something which I at one time found to be a different kind of meditation but now deem a sport of sorts. Competitive, fast paced, each individual so tightly wound up in his or own world of thought and focus, merely aiming to get from point A to point B seemingly as quickly as possible. One does not walk in a city like that for the sense of calm or inner peace it brings. One does not see this practice as a means of restoration but rather a means of transportation. It's like a million atoms in space attempting not to collide- dodging one another and hot dog carts and yellow cabs, trying not to be distracted by bright city lights, angered Yankees fans, or posh downtown hipsters donning far too few accessories. I don't think Noel would enjoy those kinds of walks, and more and more I'm thinking I wouldn't either. Because who really wants to live in world overflowing with zombies donning headphones apparently cut off from that outward experience? I think I'd rather an openness to that space, allowing all that a park or a path or landscape can wash over me as I move through it.
So there's that.
I'm no longer one of those Starbucks dwelling people... but more so my need for employment and some fund saving as transformed me into a Trader Joe's dweller. And not just for the free samples. I now get to spend mornings, afternoons, and some very late evenings unloading trucks,stocking shelves, bagging groceries and making attempts to interact with those other specialty food loving people. I work at Trader Joe's. I live at home with my parents. In a good number of ways, I'm lost. And each day is a struggle to allow myself to be okay with all of that. To be okay with where I am, what I'm doing, and what I have. Because really, I'm not lost. I'm just trying to figure out who I am and what I want without the regulations or labels of some larger institution or structure deciding for me.
And it's kind of amazing... finding yourself in the vast openness of possibility existing in the universe. But it's simultaneously terrifying- thinking that you have to choose a path, a passion, an occupation. What if you're just too overwhelmed by option? By interest? What if you're just in a transition... because transitions DO exist. And as of this moment, I am in one. The ultimate one. And I have to believe that this is going to lead to another moment... or maybe just another transition. Maybe there are no certain things or final destinations in life. Maybe it's all moving through one transition after the other- like riding the waves of an infinite sea... loving the thrilling rush of the crash, all the while terrified of drowning. I guess I'm just having a hard time. I'm having a hard time figuring out how to be living life... when the reality is, I can do or be anything. Really. So why a sense of fear or guilt or judgment? Why not just rid yourself of all of that and allow life to be what it is, where it is, in this very moment... in this transition?
Easier said than done I guess, right?
Well for now, there is some sort of satisfaction that comes from making someone smile, from seeing the world through the eyes of an affectionate, loving, animal, and so perfectly stacking jars of salsa and beans and tomato paste. There is a sense of peace one feels after reading a good book purely for pleasure, of having the time to write and write and write, and taking endless moments to pause and think, to meditate. And all I can hope is that I'll figure this thing out. This thing being life. So perhaps that will take a life time. Perhaps that's kind of the point. We spend our lives trying to figure this thing out... so we make connections with other people and places, we develop skills and interests and passions, we feel and think and dream, and we hope that at the end of the day we're left with something or someone to hold onto. We're all just trying to figure this thing out. I'm not sure that any of us really know what we're doing. And maybe there should be some sort of comfort in that.
On a lighter note, the following items are assisting me in welcoming my favorite season of Autumn... check them out:
Poetry of Richard Siken: Crush
the musical stylings of Ingrid Michaelson, Ryan Adams (from Easy Tiger), Courtney Jones and Ben Folds
new books including: The Kids are All Right and The Stranger (Camus)
Baking and eating pumpkin bread
abundant walks in the park
actually dressing up for Halloween this year and enjoying it
Until next time,
L
So I got to thinking about walking in a city like New York- something which I at one time found to be a different kind of meditation but now deem a sport of sorts. Competitive, fast paced, each individual so tightly wound up in his or own world of thought and focus, merely aiming to get from point A to point B seemingly as quickly as possible. One does not walk in a city like that for the sense of calm or inner peace it brings. One does not see this practice as a means of restoration but rather a means of transportation. It's like a million atoms in space attempting not to collide- dodging one another and hot dog carts and yellow cabs, trying not to be distracted by bright city lights, angered Yankees fans, or posh downtown hipsters donning far too few accessories. I don't think Noel would enjoy those kinds of walks, and more and more I'm thinking I wouldn't either. Because who really wants to live in world overflowing with zombies donning headphones apparently cut off from that outward experience? I think I'd rather an openness to that space, allowing all that a park or a path or landscape can wash over me as I move through it.
So there's that.
I'm no longer one of those Starbucks dwelling people... but more so my need for employment and some fund saving as transformed me into a Trader Joe's dweller. And not just for the free samples. I now get to spend mornings, afternoons, and some very late evenings unloading trucks,stocking shelves, bagging groceries and making attempts to interact with those other specialty food loving people. I work at Trader Joe's. I live at home with my parents. In a good number of ways, I'm lost. And each day is a struggle to allow myself to be okay with all of that. To be okay with where I am, what I'm doing, and what I have. Because really, I'm not lost. I'm just trying to figure out who I am and what I want without the regulations or labels of some larger institution or structure deciding for me.
And it's kind of amazing... finding yourself in the vast openness of possibility existing in the universe. But it's simultaneously terrifying- thinking that you have to choose a path, a passion, an occupation. What if you're just too overwhelmed by option? By interest? What if you're just in a transition... because transitions DO exist. And as of this moment, I am in one. The ultimate one. And I have to believe that this is going to lead to another moment... or maybe just another transition. Maybe there are no certain things or final destinations in life. Maybe it's all moving through one transition after the other- like riding the waves of an infinite sea... loving the thrilling rush of the crash, all the while terrified of drowning. I guess I'm just having a hard time. I'm having a hard time figuring out how to be living life... when the reality is, I can do or be anything. Really. So why a sense of fear or guilt or judgment? Why not just rid yourself of all of that and allow life to be what it is, where it is, in this very moment... in this transition?
Easier said than done I guess, right?
Well for now, there is some sort of satisfaction that comes from making someone smile, from seeing the world through the eyes of an affectionate, loving, animal, and so perfectly stacking jars of salsa and beans and tomato paste. There is a sense of peace one feels after reading a good book purely for pleasure, of having the time to write and write and write, and taking endless moments to pause and think, to meditate. And all I can hope is that I'll figure this thing out. This thing being life. So perhaps that will take a life time. Perhaps that's kind of the point. We spend our lives trying to figure this thing out... so we make connections with other people and places, we develop skills and interests and passions, we feel and think and dream, and we hope that at the end of the day we're left with something or someone to hold onto. We're all just trying to figure this thing out. I'm not sure that any of us really know what we're doing. And maybe there should be some sort of comfort in that.
On a lighter note, the following items are assisting me in welcoming my favorite season of Autumn... check them out:
Poetry of Richard Siken: Crush
the musical stylings of Ingrid Michaelson, Ryan Adams (from Easy Tiger), Courtney Jones and Ben Folds
new books including: The Kids are All Right and The Stranger (Camus)
Baking and eating pumpkin bread
abundant walks in the park
actually dressing up for Halloween this year and enjoying it
Until next time,
L
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