Salt

I can't tell if the crunchy stuff in my salad is salt or dirt.  I didn't rinse the greens from the farmers market because I assumed they were already clean, but I'm thinking now that I was very wrong about that, and now I'm sure that I should watch my salad very closely as I eat it because there is a good chance I'll end up eating a bug if I don't.  You should always look at your food while you're eating it.  I've seen lots of half-eaten bugs in my time as a waitress in a farm-to-table restaurant and I'm sure it's something I don't want to experience.

I'm memorizing a poem as a part of the Writing Workshop I'm currently teaching (despite my lack of qualifications).  The poem is The Happiest Day, by Linda Pastan.  I'll attempt to rewrite it here from memory, right now.

It was early May, I think
A moment of lilac or dogwood
when so many promises are made it hardly matters if a few are broken.
My mother and father still hovered in the background, part of the scenery,
like the houses I grew up in.
And if they would be torn down
that was something I knew but didn't believe.
Our children were asleep or playing,
the youngest as new
as the new smell of lilacs.
And how could I have guessed their roots were shallow
and would be easily transplanted.
I didn't even guess that I was happy.
The small irritations that are like salt on melon
were what I dwelt on,
though in truth they only made the fruit taste sweeter.
So we sat on the porch in the cool morning, sipping hot coffee
behind the news of the day --
strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere--
I could see the top of your dark head
and thought not of public conflagrations,
but of how it might feel on my bare shoulder.

If someone could stop the camera then.
If someone could just stop the camera and ask me,
Are you happy?
Perhaps I would have noticed the way
the morning sun shown in the reflected color of lilac.
Yes, I might have said,
and offered a steaming cup of coffee.

(Linda Pastan)

So, I almost have it.  I cheated a little.  I'll practice again tomorrow.

There are many lines I love in this poem, but one in particular has been speaking to me recently: The small irritations that are like salt on melon were what I dwelt on, though in truth they only made the fruit taste sweeter. I am becoming more and more aware of myself looking at the small irritations and taking them so very personally.  I've noticed how I notice them, and how they become focal points for my life -- ways to dissect and analyze relationships, or push away, deny, dislike, expect more, etc.  Without too much analysis, let's just say, I notice this line, and I notice that I'm noticing it for a reason.

My blog is looking strange right now, which worries me.  It's says things like 'eggs os' where it used to say Endings & Beginnings.  This makes me nervous because it makes me think I've been hacked again.  We'll see soon enough. I've already found the sweetness from that salted fruit, but if I'm meant to taste it again, so be it.

Also, I'm on Facebook again, so.

Una Poca De Gracia (A Little Bit of Grace)

"What do you do when someone is begging you to help them die?" is the question I received via text from my mom this afternoon.  Earlier she told me that she and my dad were going to visit their long-time friend who was in Intensive Care.  He is around my dad's age, I believe.   He and my dad worked together many years ago at the State Penitentiary.  My parents knew him before he had an accident that left him paralyzed from the neck down.  From what I remember, he fell from a ladder while cutting branches from a tree in his front yard.  He's lived an excruciatingly difficult but full life in a wheelchair since then, with the support of his dedicated and resilient wife.  I saw he and his wife during my most recent trip home and spent some time talking to them.  He is bright, witty, and sarcastic.  His wife is gentle, hopeful, and adoring.

I don't know the details, but something happened recently that has made his health decline rapidly.  He is in the hospital today with tubes in his throat and on support, but he is coherent and desperate. I've had honest conversations with my parents about him recently.  They've told me that he has been surrendering.  They've told me that he is through with his struggle.  He has nothing left in him.  He has been honest and frank about his experience as a quadriplegic, he has never really painted it as a blessing to have survived that fall with such consequences.

As a young girl I remember being so intrigued by his story.  He had children, just like my dad.  He was doing something I've seen my own father do in our front yard.  He fell.  My dad never did.  I imagined what it would be like to have a dad that was so completely changed.  I remember feeling so fortunate.  I never want to make my own fortune out of someone else's pain, but it reminded me, as a child, that things can be taken from you in a moment, and that's something I've never forgotten.

So, my mom asked me that question and I started to answer from the heart.  And all I could think of was PRAY.  You pray.  You pray to anything, anyone, any entity.  You just throw your words and your compassion and your faith into the wind and hope that it lands someplace where it will land softly; some fertile ground where it will be tended by caring hands.  It's all you can do.  You pray for his relief, you pray for his family's relief from grief, you pray for peace.  It's all you can do, and that's not enough in those moments when your friend of several decades is begging you to help him leave his pain and the burden of his body.  But, I really think that's all there is.

I'm not of any religious conviction.  I've tried, and nothing has fit me.  But I am sure that living a spiritual life is possible without ever knowing of one god or entity, or following any specific scripture.  It's just that willingness to see another person suffering, to not turn away, and to pray for their comfort and peace.

I don't want to forget that there is suffering in this world.  I don't want to neglect my obligation to pray and hold light and send out as much love as I am able.  I know that I can do this by acknowledging with gratitude all the beauty and joy with which I am surrounded. And I know that I can do this by acknowledging the pain and suffering of others, in all it's manifestations, many of which are invisible to the eye.

Tonight I'll pray for him, and his wife and children.  Tonight I'll pray because all we can do is hope for a little bit of grace in the moments when we are stripped of our power and dignity, when we are in pain or suffering.

When I'm Sixty-Four

On Monday my mom turned 64, and tomorrow so will my dad.  I don't know the exact age they were when they began dating, but it's been something close to 40 years since then.  When I called to talk to my parents on my mom's birthday, they told me about their shared morning; how my dad woke my mom up with a blueberry pastry adorned with a candle and then played the Beatles song 'When I'm 64.'   They explained that at some point during the early stages of their relationship, my dad heard this song and pointed out that one day, they would listen to it together on their 64th birthdays.  

My heart melted.  And I've been thinking about it since then.  

For a while now I've been considering the price we pay for our independence.  I've been thinking about all that we give away with each relationship.  I know that we learn and grow from each shared experience, but what has lingered with me is the sense that there are parts of me that I've given to others in the hope that it would be the one that lasted, and that those parts of myself are lost now,  in the way that I know I carry parts of others who have loved me.  They aren't scars or wounds or markings.  To me, the things I keep from each relationship are alive and need tending and call for attention at times.  They are feelings and memories and an ethereal presence.  I imagine that in a marriage, these same feelings exist.  The memories and feelings of time past, hurts healed, and shared joys and losses linger in each and in between both partners. The difference is that they are collected and shared in a sacred union between two people.  That the burden of all of the things and people they have known and have been are shared. 

When I recently wrote about love, I wrote this:  

LOVE is a burden.  Love is a heavy burden.  Sometimes someone comes along and helps us with it, the way my twin brother would walk behind me on the stairs in high school and lift my back pack just enough to make it weightless on my shoulders.  But when there isn't someone to lighten the load, we carry it alone on our backs and in our pockets and it's all quite heavy.  When we give it to someone and they don't accept it, what they give back weighs twice as much, so often we get heavier throughout our lives.  Some people take it and keep it.  When they do, they put it somewhere special and admire it often, like a painting or a sculpture.  They keep it safe and it makes them feel good.  Everyone is lighter then.  Babies always do this, and our truest loves do too, but even they sometimes misplace it in a move. 

I found a way to excuse myself from the commitment of marriage when I was younger, and what I've learned to do since then and in every relationship I've had is run when it gets uncomfortable.  Turn away when it stops making sense or reject when it feels like it's coming too close to taking anything away from my life.  What I've called strength, in choosing to avoid marriage and it's constraints, has been an avoidance of obligation, commitment, and full acceptance of another.  I wonder how this manifests in my relationship with self?

Maybe it's a lot to take away from a really beautiful moment and story.  I'm not missing the good in it.  I am beyond proud and honored to have the parents I have.  As an adult I am constantly seeing more clearly the people they are and just how lucky I am to know them. I am grateful.  And I am grateful for the reflection this has brought to me.  

I'm already more than half-way to 64, and I haven't found my love.  I'm not even sure that I've ever wished for it, or believed it was possible.  But now I do, and I do.  

50 Ways To Leave Your Longing

Today I deactivated my Facebook account.  It wasn't the first time and it might not be the last (although I hope it is).  I take very long breaks from it and end up back at a time when I feel disconnected or am longing to find someone with whom I regret losing touch.  Every time I'm there, staring, jaw-clenched, unblinking, at the screen, I am lost.  I am lost to myself, I am lost to the world, given to absolute mindlessness and disconnect.  When I come away, always abruptly as if waking from self-induced open-eyed coma, I feel empty and less happy.  I'd very rarely say I've come away with any sense of joy or fulfillment.  More often I come away feeling like an unrightful voyeur of other people's lives.  I feel like I've taken something that was not directly given to me; a thief of moments and thoughts and experiences not truly shared with intention.  Certainly not truly shared with me or for me, Chelsea Lynn Boyd.

This is not living.  This is not friendship.  This is not connection.  I am sure of this.

I long for connection and love because I am human.  The internet has crafted very alluring ways to supplement this human longing so that we don't have to leave our home, or our pajamas, or even brush our teeth.  We can design our images without ever doing more than typing a status update and carefully choosing the photographs we take from our iPhones.  We can create the image of a life full of thousands of friends and meaningful connections without ever even opening our mouths to utter a single word.  This scares me.

I know that being in the world can be scary. And I know that it can take a lot of work to maintain relationships, especially when one half of the relationship is still depending on tools like Facebook, Twitter, and email to know the details of another person's life.  But the truth as far as I'm concerned is: We aren't meant to have that many friends.  People are supposed to move fluidly in and out of our lives.  We are supposed to let go and make room and cherish the people we learn to love while they are present to us.  We have permission to let them go when the time comes.  We are technically required to let them go, even, or else everyone suffers to a degree.

It was scary to let go.  I'm no hero.  I am as afraid as anyone else to lose people I know and cherish.  But I'm willing to abandon that longing if it means that I will be more present to myself and the world around me, more available to the people who are in my life willfully and intentionally, and if it forces me to put more effort and authenticity into the interactions I share with people on a more personal level.  There will be loss, but there always is when we decide to live life more deeply.

Writing Wrongs

The word 'right' can mean a lot of things in the English language.  The need to be right is one of the driving forces in conflict/debate, having rights is a privilege enjoyed by very few people on this planet, and making something right is what we do when we fix a thing that's broken.  There's also the right way to do things, and the direction, right.  Lots of rights we have surrounding us.  More rights than wrongs.  I guess that's good.  

Being wrong is simple and seemingly undoable. There are a lot of ways to get there, but only one name for it.  It's easy to be wrong, but somehow easier to believe you aren't.  And maybe it's because it's this deadweight of a word -wrong- with no way out, that makes it so difficult to admit to being associated with it.  Wrong just sits like a stone in the bottom of a muddy riverbank, and it sounds like a low-pitched gong resonating loudly in your head and for everyone to hear for miles and miles. Right flits around changing shape and color and meaning as it pleases, it's whimsical and everyone loves it, it sounds like birds chirping or windchimes.  So pleasant.  If I could choose one, I'd choose right.  Who wouldn't?  And I have chosen it again and again throughout my life. 

Conflict is important to growth.  And what I'm learning is that I. Hate. It.  I wish I could avoid it altogether.  And even when I can't, I sometimes find a way by shutting down, out, or up completely.  And honestly, that's wrong.  What I do when I think I'm protecting myself is shut people out and choose what I see as right action (or inaction) to take over where peacemaking, resolution, or understanding could be present.  I could spend a lifetime writing out the wrongs inflicted upon me by others, while I wait for someone to apologize or validate what has hurt or felt unjustifiable.  I have written countless rants about the wrongs, and not enough about what people have done that has felt, right by me.  

My friend Jadyn said she'd learned that it's better to be happy than right.  She said every time she's confronted with conflict with another person she asks herself quietly, 'Would I rather be right?  Or happy?'  She almost always chooses happiness, and when she doesn't, she regrets it.  

I have been battling it out with a friend for months.  A miscommunication that turned quickly into an unfixable break that has seeped into these sacred places in my life.  It's inescapable.  It's not going away.  And I was refusing to face it because I didn't want anyone to see me as wrong.  What would that steal from me?  What amount of pride would it take away? 

I was riding my bike today and found myself drawn to her apartment.  I wrote a note on her car just asking what I need to do to make it right.  I wrote the note to begin making it right because, it isn't worth it.  It just isn't.  Sometimes I think that fights are just our internal conflicts manifested in another person.  Our personal battles, fears, and judgments projected onto each other and then of course amplified by our own unique inability to understand or help.  

I'd rather be happy than right.  I'd rather offer my friend and myself the right to a life without unnecessary conflict.  And I hope to keep trying to choose this, even though it is so hard.  I don't want to be the person who creates discord and unhappiness for anyone in this world.  And, as I've said before, this is where I have to start if I ever want to do things differently; with what's right in front of me.  Taking right action.  Making something right.  Writing a new set of rules. 

Faith Needs A Backbone

There's a lesson stirring for me that I need to put into words.  Since I've let go, recently, and been floating in the quiet surrender of knowing that I'm moving east in September, I've felt like an observer of my own life.  I've been enjoying it, really.  I've been choosing to let go of the desire to control or demand things.  I've been trusting that each step along the way has been a part of the grand plan.  I haven't been questioning as much, which is a very new thing for me.  I thought.

When my roommate suggested we move into a one bedroom for the remainder of my time here, I was open to the idea.  It came suddenly and in reaction to a one-week consecutive stay at our apartment where our upstairs paranoid schizophrenic neighbor was raging on the streets, and our uniquely loud next door neighbors were having their usual high volume, repetitive conversations.  It was the standard cacophony of sound and insanity I've not yet grown accustomed to here, but have at least come to know.  I understood her reaction and let myself float along with the romantic idea of shared space for a brief period of time.  I imagined my bedroom in the living room and let myself see it as the dorm room experience I'd never had.  Even still, I imagined that she might change her mind while looking... perhaps realize that it was a hasty decision, and just stick it out with me until September.  I didn't say or question any of this out loud, though.  Just kept it in strong faith that it would work out, no matter what.  (Which I'm still sure it will.)

Things kept moving forward in the search.  She found a place she loved and I should have known then that it was inevitable she'd get it.  (She has a way of making these kinds of things happen through tenacious persistence and insistence.  It's admirable, really.)  But I still clung to the hope that she might change her mind, and if not, I still had that vision of living there together.  When she got the apartment, she came to talk to me about it.  It was the first time we had actually sat down and discussed it.  It was real.  She asked me what I would be taking with me.  I told her everything.  We started to discuss the logistics of it all.  I started realizing I'd have to find places to store my things.  That would be difficult, but I was willing.  I thought about moving twice in less than six months.  A bit overwhelming, but I was willing.  When I told her I'd keep my bed in the living room, I saw her wince just the tiniest bit, and at that I winced, too. Today, following that conversation, I received a text message explaining that I couldn't have my bed in the living room.  I knew then that I wouldn't be living there.

I haven't thought for a moment that this was intentional on her part.  I've not even given a second's thought to the possibility of her not caring.  I could spend some time writing about my feelings of disappointment or hurt or indignation or frustration, but I'm not going to.  Not here.  What I want to acknowledge is the lesson that San Diego just refused to let me leave without: Know how to honor what's best for me, even when it might inconvenience someone else, or ask of someone else, or feel uncomfortable to say.  Know how and when to ask, rather than find an answer.  I've given lip service to some of this, and to my credit I've gotten much better over the years.  But when it really comes down to it, in the moments of true need, in the moments of really having the choice to say the difficult thing, I still turn away.  I space out.  I hope that someone else will just take care of me.  I trust that someone else is considering me along with themselves.  I believe that this is possible, because it's what I do.  It's a hyper-awareness of others that, for me, often leads to a lack of self care and consideration.

I wish I had asked the questions.  I wish I had at least asked her to wait until we had the chance to discuss our ideas and needs.  So, even though I am sitting with a lot of emotions right now, I'm thankful.  I'm so thankful that I didn't leave without this one.  I'm so thankful that I've been given the opportunity to face this lesson knowing what I know now, being fully present to myself and in my life. I'm thankful that I can see so clearly where I abandoned myself in this situation.

No one in the world has an obligation or responsibility to me.  I won't put that on my roommate.  I won't project that sense of abandonment onto her, even though it would be easy to do.  She did what she needed and desired.  I could learn a lot from her in that respect.  What I promise to myself is that I'll raise my hand the next time I'm unsure of something and ASK.  I'll ask for time if I need it.  I'll acknowledge and honor the importance of my own needs when they might be compromised.  And I'll forgive myself and anyone else involved when it doesn't work out perfectly, because it always does work out.  So, my faith in humanity, in life, in spirit, carries me in many ways.  But, it doesn't always have to look like quiet surrender to circumstances.  Sometimes having faith means joining the conversation, feeling discomfort, asking of another.  When faith has a backbone, it speaks up and trusts that even when the questions/words/requests might not be welcome, that they will be received and acknowledged.  I'm looking forward to the next opportunity I have to put this into practice.

Choosing To Leave

Six years ago I made a choice to leave home.  It was a choice I made out of desperation and in blind hope.  I sold off or gave away a houseful of things, said goodbye to dozens of close friends, abandoned a city I adored, and let go of the safety and absolute endless support of my family.  I did all of this because I believed there was a chance I could find myself, my truest most authentic self, only if I left behind all that had ever lifted me up and defined me.  Some quiet voice inside of me said that it was time to go, that there were lessons to be learned, that it was time to see myself outside of the world I'd always known.  I bought a one-way ticket to San Diego with a few bags and one or two boxes on their way in the mail.
It was a painful choice, and for a year after I arrived here I fell into deep moments of despair and grief, but never fully regret.  I hid from my intentions in leaving and questioned my motives often.  I wasn't ready to face myself, and I found convenient ways to avoid doing so.  I felt so alone in those days.  So exposed.  I realized that the life I had built in Pittsburgh had only kept me from knowing who I truly was, and kept everyone else from knowing, too.  And here people were waiting for me to be someone and, I didn't know how to be.  I was starting from scratch and had not yet learned how to listen to myself, so when I fell in love for the first time, with someone who was willing and eager to tell me how to be, I listened and molded my life skillfully.  I spent a long time with that love, trying to make myself fit into the life he created.  It was the most painful experience of my life.  And I don't blame him.  I understand that the way we hurt takes different shapes, and his just looked like creating safety by making me safe for him.  But, I entered into that relationship without even having come close to knowing who I was, so to find myself after I was buried under his definitions was a task that took quite some time.  I loved him.  There was never any doubt.  And when I look back on myself in those days I feel immense respect and admiration for my heart's ability to love so deeply and willingly and tenderly.  I'm glad I know that part of me exists.  It took years and months of uncovering, of digging into the ground and hitting the red clay of my own resistance to truth, before I could see that I was not alive at all in that life.  That I had chosen to leave myself the day I met him and that, certainly, I was crying out to be found.  I remember when I heard the voice again, say to me that it was time to leave.  I was astonished.  I was dumbstruck.  My rational mind could not believe that this was the answer I had received.  But I listened, and I left.  I left a houseful of things, said goodbye to the only man I had ever loved until then, abandoned a home that overlooked the ocean and was flooded with moonlight at night and sunlight by day, and let go of the dependable willingness of him to hold me and hear me and let me be as broken as I could have ever been.  I took my car and my clothes and a few items in one box to a studio apartment with a twin-sized bed and I started again.
It's been two years and two weeks, exactly, since that day that I landed in that little apartment and began my search for myself.  It's been two years of learning and growth and building and breaking and loving and letting go.  Thinking back, I can't believe it's only been two years.  It's felt like a lifetime.
I heard the voice again, recently, after I spoke to my twin brother about helping him move across the country.  He had asked me if I would come along for the ride from Tucson to New York, and I readily agreed.  I have always wanted to drive across the country.  I've had visions of it a thousand times over the past six years I've lived here.  I've fantasized about doing it in a truck full of my own belongings, heading back to my family.  I've dreamt about it on the cusp of heartbreak and loss and failure.  It has been my lifeline, holding on to that hope.  And now I can do it with my brother just for the fun of it, I thought.  But when I was walking later that day I heard that voice say, "Why don't you pack your stuff in that truck, too?" and there it was.  The question was offered and I knew the answer.  For two weeks I sat with that question.  I spent days crying about the loss of this beautiful life I've created here.  This life I built from scratch... from negative space, even, because I didn't start on neutral ground.  I started at a loss.  And finally here I am and my life is full and beautiful and thriving.  And now I'm being asked to let go and start again.  I cried and I prayed and I waited until I knew with certainty that it was time to go, and it was.  I heard it again and again.  I saw it in the life around me that had been falling away and making room naturally over the past several months.  I saw it in myself and the peace I felt at knowing the answer.  I felt and knew it in the swelling of my heart at the idea of being able to own my responsibility to love and honor my family, to show up for my niece and nephews and brothers and sisters (in-law and in heart).  I felt the willingness to let go, to surrender to the absolute truth that everything changes.  Death and rebirth and loss and rebuilding are the inescapable basis of the human experience.  Everything I know today will be different some day sooner than I'd like.   I am willing to let go and leap without looking.  I am willing to do this because I know that I will land in a place full of people who are ready to love and learn with me.  I know this because it's happened to me more than once in this strange city I grew to consider home.
I'm choosing to leave San Diego in September.  I'm going to take a lot of stuff with me this time.  I'm taking my couch and my bed, all the furniture that was gifted to me by the people who helped me land softly.  I'm taking the art I've created and collected, the books with the words that became my companions, the blankets and lamps and things and things and things that become our lives and world.  I'm taking them all.  I'm taking so much more that can't be seen.  I'm carrying with me the wisdom of having hurt deeply and healed, the warm embrace of friendships that waited and witnessed and accepted, the strength of forgiveness and compassion for myself and others, the weight of obligation to truth.  I'm taking my love of language and words, and my dedication to pursue that love with the same tenacious and unfaltering desire I have to know and see myself clearly in this world.  I'm taking a vulnerable and strong heart.  I'm taking all of me.  And gratitude, so much gratitude, but that's another post altogether.

If I May Be Honest

For whatever reasons, which I'll probably explore, starting this new job has brought an awareness of self that is new and, honestly, uncomfortable.  I am completely humbled by the amount of skill and knowledge I have yet to acquire.  I feel exposed.  Naked.  Under-qualified.  Like they're going to begin to suspect very soon that I tricked them into believing I knew what I was doing.  And I didn't trick them.  I really thought I did.  

So I've been learning A LOT.  And what I've noticed is that I'm quiet when I'm learning.  I don't have what it takes to put on a show for anyone.  I'm concentrating and I'm quiet.  My ego is screaming!  It's saying "You seem boring.. mean.. too quiet... they aren't going to like you if you don't do better soon... be happy!  have more energy! "  And I hear it loud and clear.  And I see it for what it is.  We all have that voice.  I feel myself resisting the urge to say to my new coworkers "You know, I'm actually an outgoing person, I'm just learning right now so that's why I'm being so quiet..." and trailing off into some long line of excuses and promises to be more of what I think they'd like to see.  Sometimes I do mention it, or I do try to force some playfulness or joking when it isn't really coming from a place of authenticity, just so they might know I've got it in me.  

It's been a challenge to be this unfamiliar version of myself in an environment where I know people have expectations of me.  It's been a challenge to be patient with myself as I unfold and learn and settle into this new community.  What I've noticed is that I default to some way of being or speaking that is familiar to me... a way I know how to be that is palatable, safe, approachable.  It's sarcasm.  Good old sarcasm.  Just yesterday I was sitting in a cafe with a friend and eavesdropping on a conversation at a nearby table where two people immediately dove into conversation about a television series they both watch.  They energetically discussed the details of each fictional character, each turn of plot, each dramatic exchange as if they were their closest friends.  I made a comment about how glad I was to not indulge in TV series.  How I believed that they are this convenient way we've found to not talk about anything real at all.  And then I find myself at work that night, concentrating so hard on learning this whole new set of skills that will really probably take me years to learn fully, and in a moment when I thought I needed to speak to someone, I chose sarcasm.  And I felt like a hypocrite, because sarcasm is an incredibly effective way to not talk to someone at all.  Sarcasm is a tool to demean, to avoid truth, to make conversation unclear, that we carelessly use all the time.  That I carelessly use as a means to communicate without risking being seen as rude.  It's funny, right, if I put that tone into it.  It's funny if I make the truth sound more like a question, or if I tell you how I really feel by pretending that how I really don't feel is the truth.  It's confusing!  And it's not honest. 

Starting a new job kicks up a lot of stuff.  The desire to be liked is one of those things.  I want to fit in.  Starting a new job really strips you down, too.  There is no social infrastructure built to support me yet. I have to build my own, and that takes time.  So, I'm new and know very little and am standing very much alone.  There's this beauty though, of having the opportunity to just be who I am and see how it feels.  The beauty of the opportunity to just be honest, to accept myself, to embrace the chance to learn so much, to be quiet and observe and find my place.  I'm going to challenge myself to speak more honestly, even though I know that makes me and others uncomfortable.  I'm going to practice being honest with myself and others, ask questions when I have them, listen and observe more intently.  I'm going to try to resist the urge to use sarcasm as a tool to help others get to know me in a way that allows them to reject or deny without anyone having to acknowledge a thing.  

Sarcasm is a way of manipulating language so that we lean away from the truth, even if just a little.  When we lean away from the truth, we lean into deceit.  That speaks volumes to me, because I desire to be an honest and forthright person.  I'm hoping that with this awareness I'll be able to do things differently today, and at least once, just say what I need to say, or even risk saying nothing at all when I should just listen.  

Thank you, Alanis Morissette

A couple of months ago my mom suggested I listen to a song by Alanis Morissette.  I hastily disregarded the suggestion, assuming my mom knew nothing about my taste in music, for one, and also because I had some immediate judgement about Alanis Morissette (even though, quite honestly, I've liked a lot of her songs with the exception of You Oughta Know -- and I really only learned to dislike that one because I had seen too many angry, drunk, white girls sing it with all their might at karaoke and I happen to have sensitive ears, so.)

Eventually in a moment when I was missing my mom, I decided to listen to this song.  It moved me.  It shook me up and brought tears to my eyes.  And I know I'm sentimental and love this kind of stuff, but there was something there that was so simple and sweet and willing to love that I, just cried.

One thing I want to acknowledge immediately here was that I was wrong about my mom.  I often am.  She does know me.  And even though she's sometimes just a little off the mark, she's always aiming at the right target.  With this song she reminded me of the sweet knowing only a mom has.

About this song.  I'm going to share the lyrics, but I beg you to release all attachment to proper English, poetic prose, and grammatical accuracy.  I'm going to ask you to please, just loosen up and see it in all it's vulnerability, because that's part of it's beauty.  And, if you've ever tried to write lyrics to a song with all those considerations, you've probably learned that those songs suck and sound like they were written by complete nerds (I know because I've tried to write songs and have always been unwilling to release my attachment to properly formed sentences and unabbreviated words and they have sucked).  Here they are:  (IF YOU'RE ABLE OR WILLING, LISTEN TO THE SONG AT THE SAME TIME, PLEASE)

how bout getting off these antibiotics
how bout stopping eating when I'm full up
how bout them transparent dangling carrots
how bout that ever elusive kudo

thank you india
thank you terror
thank you disillusionment
thank you frailty
thank you consequence
thank you thank you silence

how bout me not blaming you for everything
how bout me enjoying the moment for once
how bout how good it feels to finally forgive you
how bout grieving it all one at a time

the moment I let go of it was the moment
I got more than I could handle
the moment I jumped off of it
was the moment I touched down

how bout no longer being masochistic
how bout remembering your divinity
how bout unabashedly bawling your eyes out
how bout not equating death with stopping

thank you india
thank you providence
thank you disillusionment
thank you nothingness
thank you clarity
thank you thank you silence

I love all of these words, except maybe 'thank you India' but that's because I'm still working through my fear of the sadness that exists there and my judgement of the very stereotypical American's desire to find enlightenment while doing yoga amongst a people's struggle (that's assuming that A.M. wasn't just thanking India for the same reasons I might if I decided to).

What unhinges me is the reminder that I can, and want to say thank you for the hard stuff -- disillusionment, nothingness, silence, sadness, consequence, frailty, terror, unmet needs, grief, letting go.  That these things absolutely carve out space for joy and depth of character and integrity and clarity in seeing self and the world.  They are gifts and they are as welcome as a belly laugh or a joy that erupts from somewhere inside of me that is unknown or the experience of absolutely surrendering to loving something or someone. They are welcome and I want them in my life too.

Gmail saves everything.  I am constantly, accidentally finding some old email or exchange I had forgotten.  Today I found very old and forgotten chat exchanges between myself and my ex-boyfriend (I wasn't looking, I swear!).  My very first love.  The only one I've ever completely surrendered to.  And what I saw was, so interesting.  I've been 'over' that relationship for enough time now to not be hurt by it, but my heart was pried open by something that surprised me.  I saw myself.  I saw my absolute and undeniable willingness and desire to love and accept him.  I saw that he often didn't give me a response that reinforced that love, but that it didn't matter.  I had made up my mind and I was going to love him no matter what.  And I said thank you.  Thank you vulnerability.  Thank you willingness.  Thank you, thank you, kindness.  Thank you, thank you, innocence.

There's something that happens when you say thanks for the things that hurt in the moment. It makes it possible, maybe easier, for that space that we need to be carved out for joy.  It stops us from resisting the inevitable and therefore prolonging it or making it more painful.  It helps us to see the lesson within it and celebrate the learning.

Thank you, thank you fear.
Thank you questioning.
Thank you possibility.
Thank you choice.
Thank you, thank you patience.


Thank you, mom.

Pick one.

I have a gift.  I am certain that I am very good at doing one thing:  filling my calendar with things to do.

There are things I enjoy doing, feel compelled to do, and am curious about doing.  Writing, singing, dancing, becoming a professional something-or-other, helping people, learning about new stuff, practicing yoga, keeping friendships alive, reading, taking long walks, creating art.  I've often thought that if I could just pick one of these things and commit to it, I could do it really well.  I believed that there would be some payout of satisfaction in this choice that I have not yet experienced in life.  If I could just choose the one thing I love the most and only do that, immerse myself in it, I could realize my potential.  As an adult I've found my inability to do this disappointing.

I've been pondering this for the past few days.  I asked myself why I haven't been able to pick the one thing.  I realized that I haven't been willing to set any other thing down.  I am unable to focus on the experience of shining the light on the 'one thing' because I can't stop looking at all the other stuff in the shadows waiting. Well, realizing that made me love myself a little more.  These things I care about --the poetry and the music and the friendships and the desire to learn and grow-- are like my children.  I created them, I take care of them, I nourish them, I spend time with each of them.  I've got a lot of kids and they are all at different levels of maturity and have very different needs and personalities.  They're mine and I can't disown any one of them.  It might be tiring, and sometimes I'll neglect a few, but never intentionally and never permanently.

When I was a little girl, I played the violin.  So did my twin brother.  There's been a story I've been telling myself all my life about the experience of growing up with a brother who dedicated himself wholly to that instrument and was praised for the results of his devotion while I only considered the violin an interesting experiment and was reminded of the results of my lack of commitment by my violin teacher often.  I'm letting go of the story of being in the shadow of my brother.  Really.  Finally.  I'm just realizing that I'm a different person altogether, and I did other things while Aaron practiced.  I learned how to play the flute, viola, cello, piano, I sang too.  I have never, until this moment, acknowledged any of that.  For too long I had been focused on amending what I thought was an injured ego from the experience of not being outstanding at any single one of those instruments.

I'm a curious person.  A seeker.  I don't need to know everything about something.  I just need to know enough to experience it.  There's magic in stopping there, I think.  It feels like an honoring of the 'one thing' and myself.  We all remain intact.  We've known each other but not given ourselves over to each other.  Maybe this tendency in me is what makes loving one person particularly challenging for me.

Today I accept and embrace all of this.  I am a whimsical girl.  I like that.  And if I keep it up, I'll get to know and see a lot of things.  I might not ever perfect any one art or have a remarkable career, but I will have seen and learned and experienced enough to make up for that.  Besides, saying that I'm a poet, dancer, violinist, pianist, singer, writer, and artist feels better than just saying one thing.  It leaves room for the possibility to say more.

Think Smaller

Lately I've been thinking a lot about how I'd like my life to look.  For a long time, actually, I've been considering all the ways I'd like to help people, change the world, do something worthwhile, give back.  I've also been considering all the ways I'd like to 'improve' my life by going back to school or getting a better job or being healthier or more fit and so on.  After all this thinking and consideration, I had quite a list of things to do before I died ranging from getting cavities filled to helping women birth children in Africa and advocating for victims of sex trafficking in the United States and India.  It's an impressive list.  It's also an intimidating list.

Something felt so frantic about the whole thing.  Like, how will I ever get it all done and what am I doing now that brings me closer to these huge goals?  I felt defeated before I had even really begun.  I felt like every day I lived up until now only showcased my lack of concern for others and that I had a lot to make up for.  There was shame in every direction I turned.  I wasn't moving fast enough.  I wasn't working hard enough.  I should have been somewhere else by now altogether.  I started to think about how I might be more effective if I had less friends, or if I gave up doing other things I enjoy.

I was feeling a sense of overwhelm and frustration and then the calm voice of, I don't know, not reason, but let's say my heart, spoke to me.  It asked:  'If in the end it is only you that you'll have to answer to, what would you regret having not done, really?'  And the answer was very simple:  I would regret not enjoying my life.  If in the end, I had accomplished every thing on that list, but did it alone and without joy and frantically, I would regret that.  If in the end, I hadn't felt the warmth of family and friends and love as often as possible, I would regret that.  Quite honestly, when I really thought about it, when I really let myself envision the life I wanted on those terms, my heart's terms, it was so extremely simple.  I want a house with lace curtains and a garden and windows that allow sunlight to make pools on the floor to stretch and lay in.  I want to make tea and bake things and cook healthy meals and have friends and family close by to share those things with.  I want to experience a marriage and love that is mutual and healthy and fulfilling -- nourishing.  I want to feel at peace.  I want to create art and write and listen to and play music.  I want to know that I am safe to give and receive love.

If I think about living in another country and taking cold showers and being away from the people I know and love, my heart aches.  I would love to help the world.  I would.  It comes from a true and good place in me.  But, in this moment, I'm not even fully loving the people who are currently in my life.  I'm not calling my pregnant friends to ask how they're feeling.  I'm not sending my mom a card to tell her she's beautiful.  I'm not sending my niece and nephews packages to let them know that I am thinking of them.  I'm not fully loving the people who are loving me.

I want to start there.  I want to start so extremely small.  I want to make sure that I am giving the people in my life who show up for me again and again, something back.  And if the only thing I ever do is live with love in my heart while I wait tables, or bake cookies, or talk to my friends and family, then that is absolutely enough.  I will have done my very best and I will not regret a thing.

So, I'm starting smaller.  I'm starting with loving myself.  I'm starting with doing something for someone else.  I'm starting with considering someone else's feelings before I speak or act.  I'm starting small.  And I do hope for the house with the curtains and the sunlight and even still hope for the chance to offer myself to a cause that is important to me, but until then, I'm grateful for what I have right now, which is a lot.  And I'm grateful to recognize that just to learn how to love what's in front of me is probably the biggest thing I'll ever cross off that list.

LOVE (noun/verb)

1.  A desire to know someone/something deeply; a ceaseless willingness to do so through intentional observation/study.
2.  Powerful consideration of beloved's needs & desires, at times leading to sacrifice and/or challenging negotiation.
3.  Finite supply; requires replenishment.  Is replenished by return of love or joy.  (Although there is always a secret reserve, LOVE thrives in an environment of reciprocity.)
4.  A warm, gentle, softness of the human spirit.  (Varied levels reveal different characteristics, ranging from tenderness to passion.)
5.  Constant.  Although the expression may change, love, once present, never completely leaves the relationship between the lover and the beloved.  (It unlocks a door to the soul that never is locked again.  It may close, but the soul's knowledge of it's existence never disappears.)
6.  An abandonment of the confined language of right/wrong, proving/disproving;  embraces the alchemical language of understanding and acceptance.
7.  A complete surrendering to one's own desires;  A willful vulnerability; an expression of one's desire to be seen fully.
8.  Can be given and/or received; held and/or withheld; denied and/or acknowledged; suppressed and/or exalted; lost and/or discovered.
9. The artist's brush, the sculptor's chisel, the musician's instrument, the writer's pen;  The way the lover designs and creates her/his life is through the experience and expression of all forms of love;  It is the necessary tool for creation.

A Walk As Reminder

I fantasize often about taking a trip to another country and walking from some place to another place far away.  A pilgrimage, I guess.  I know of a few of these that are very sacred traditions for which people save and prepare their entire lives.
Today I made a pilgrimage from my city neighborhood to the ocean 8 miles away.  I went alone.  I thought a lot about life and love, two pretty broad subjects I realize.
I'm still working on that definition of love, you know.  It's taking me some time.
The start of the walk was familiar and safe.  I felt at home walking through the neighborhoods surrounding my apartment. There were lots of people around and I knew where I was going.

The next leg of the journey was short but very exciting.  I walked through a beautiful neighborhood that I had never explored before.  It was quiet and the houses and trees there were magical to me.  I felt grateful to have seen it.

After this, I came to a crossroads.  I could turn left and walk past miles of fast food restaurants and stores or turn right and take a more scenic route.  The reason I even had to contemplate this was because I have heard more than once that the scenic route was not that safe.  I chose the ugly path knowing that it would end in a prettier spot near the ocean.  Taking this route was a nightmare for me, and the longest part of the journey.  It was ugly, didn't feel particularly safe, and it was boring.  I felt very alone and wanted many times to find a quick way out.  

This road ended very subtly.  It wasn't like I came over a hill and suddenly saw the ocean ahead of me. It just stopped being so ugly a little at a time, and started to become familiar again as I came closer to my destination.  When I made it to the beach, I felt glad.  I felt like I had done something I said I would do.  I didn't feel accomplished or proud, I just felt finished.  And then I felt very very alone.  It was clear, in that moment, that an experience like this is better shared. 

I had romanticized the idea of doing this alone.  I thought that I would gain clarity on myself or the questions I had about life.  I thought that I needed to be alone to hear my own answers.  But the one thing that was clear was that I am tired of doing things alone.  I would like to be finished trying to prove to myself or anyone else that I am able to do this alone.  I am.  I have.  Honestly, I don't want to keep walking alone.  I want someone to hug and have lunch with at the end of any long walks from now on. 

I like analogies.  I can't help but see the stories of living reflected in all these ways around me.   Maybe that's one of the reasons I like poetry.  I saw my own life reflected in this walk today.  The leaving of home, the short bursts of magic and gratitude, the crossroads and choice, the long, ugly part, the aloneness and the desire for company.  I could dig deeper, but I'm not going to right now.  I mean, I already know the story of my life.  I know how it's felt to walk up until this moment.  What I want to know is which path will I take next, and who will join me?  

Staying with you.

I might want to be a doula.  I am considering becoming a volunteer doula for a local non-profit that inspires me.  I did the training this past weekend and walked away thinking about a lot of things, like, how interesting group dynamics can be, and how amazing our bodies are, and that I'm sensitive to people's energy, and that there are a lot of things I just don't know.  

In the beginning of class the teacher asked us, 'What would you do if you witnessed a car accident?'  And after we got past the 911 calls and assessing safety and finally got to the questions about what we would say to the people who are injured and stuck in their car, everyone started to quietly say what they thought they should say, but no one was really sure what the answer was.  

Our teacher, Ann, said, 'You tell them what you know.  You tell them only what you know and only the truth.  You don't tell them everything is going to be OK, because you don't know that it will be.'  She said, 'You tell them that you're there with them and that you aren't going to leave, that help is on the way, that they are out of traffic and that cars have stopped.   You tell them that you hear the sirens, when you hear them, and you keep telling them that you are there, and that you are going to stay.'

This simple lesson moved me deeply.  I thought of all the times I've tried to be present and supportive to someone who is in pain and all the ways I've tried to help them by telling them what to do or how it will be different or what it was like for me when...  but I've never said, 'I'm with you and I'm not going to leave you until you are safe.'  'I'm with you and I can see that you are hurting, I can see that you are in pain, and I am going to hold your hand while you feel what you need to feel.  I am with you and I am not going to leave you.'

I wish I had known sooner that all most people want and need is for another person to just stay with them.  That to live an authentic life we just need to be honest.  Say what we know is true, even though we might want to say more in order to fill the space left by not having all the answers.  Notice what is around you, tell the truth about what you see, commit to staying even when it is uncomfortable, and wait for the answer to arrive, because it will, it's always on the way, I can hear it coming.  

 

I'm not trying to change the world on Wednesday.

Today I saw a lot of beautiful things.  I was reminded of the renewal and inspiration one can find in nature, and of nature's ceaseless willingness to just  be what it is in all it's vulnerability and naked resplendence.  I needed to see trees today.  Trees feel like brothers and sisters of mine, and visiting them fills the place in me that so desires the sense of safety and comfort I feel when I'm with my family.

Heartache & Parking Tickets

Today I'm remembering being someone else.  I'm remembering being 20-something, living in Pittsburgh and having a particular set of friends whose company inspired a certain ease I haven't ever been able to replicate exactly.

For some reason the memory of a late winter's day is with me.  The Postal Service had just released Give Up and Paul Fittipaldi had a tiny record with some magical, hidden track on it.  Tara, Paul, Jadyn, and I were together in Paul's quirky apartment in Squirrel Hill.  It was cold and wet outside and in this memory I can't be sure if it was night or day, but things are different that way in Pittsburgh.  Because you spend more time inside, you aren't ever as wholly aware of what time of day it is, especially considering that gray skies are practically a constant and especially in terms of memories.  The four of us played that record over and over again, dancing in his kitchen, laughing, maybe drinking espresso or bourbon or both.  We weren't drinking a lot of anything.  But we were dancing.  And time didn't matter, and goals or aspirations were spoken in a language we hadn't yet learned, and worry was something that we might have had a fling with and didn't believe we'd meet again.  It was fun and it felt safe and it felt permanent enough to not think about too much.

When memories like this visit me, I am reminded of the absolute impermanence in life.  That even who we are to ourselves will change without us noticing.  I am reminded that people will always enter and leave our lives, oftentimes also without us noticing the exact moment.

So why would our hearts ache, if we know this is true?  And we do.  Everything we know in this moment will become something else inevitably.

I was thinking about the inevitable. The chance involved in finding moments of grace and love.  The loss that is the shadow walking in step with joy.  The varying weights of the commitments we carry.  The burden of the ownership of our choices.  And I thought about parking tickets, too.  I was thinking about how they always surprise us, and annoy us, and come in bunches, and how we never really understand why they're happening to us, even when the streets are clearly marked or the rules are well documented.  I was thinking about heartache and how it's the same in those ways and how we often ignore signs anyway or misread them at least.  You know, it's hard to park in a big city full of people.  And sometimes a girl just wants to get home (or someplace that feels like it).

Yes, parking tickets and heartache are inevitable.  That's where I'm going with this.  I can't imagine I'll remember the parking tickets of my life, even though there is something painful about the expense of poor decisions that leaves a mark no matter how small the infraction.

And being 20-something in Pittsburgh, I'm not sure where that ties in.  Maybe I don't have to know right now.  Maybe it was before I noticed parking tickets and before heartache impetuously cut a tender spot into a permanent scar that I habitually reach to touch with my fingertips to remind myself of my own vulnerability and significant lack of wisdom in the world of love.

But I sold my car.  So that's one less thing to worry about and there's a lot of peace in that.  It's an incredible experience to recondition my response to the sound of a street cleaner.  But heartache happens alone or with another person.  There's nothing I can sell or give up in order to be safe from that.  So, perhaps the wisdom is in reading the signs more closely, or taking a little extra time to find a suitable spot even though a warm bed beckons.  And the wisdom is also in paying the ticket right away, owning the mistake, and forgiving myself and especially the meter maid.

I want to snuff out the flame of believing that anyone means harm and instead build a strong and constant willingness to believe that we all want to love and be loved, and that we simply falter in our expression.  And in relationships when we ignore the signs and then the tickets and the penalties begin to add up and resentment sits at the foot of our bed and reminds us upon waking and before our night's rest and all the moments of restlessness in between that we aren't doing a good job, well, it makes it hard to even get back to a zero balance.

I'm thinking I could go on forever with this analogy.

I'm thinking that the next time someone tells me that they received a parking ticket, I'm going to hug them and tell them I'm sorry, and maybe that small gesture will pay into any deficit in their heart and, maybe that's the best I can come up with in this moment and hopefully for someone it will be worth something.




 

Cryptic Thoughts on Sprite

Isn't it the worst thing when something like a Sprite from a soda fountain, whose color won't reveal it's missing ingredient, ends up only being soda water because the sweet syrup has run out?  Have you ever had that happen to you?  Have you ever gleefully gulped through the straw what you thought would be cold and bubbly and painfully sweet only to be shocked by the naked plainness of it's sugar catalyst?  Even though it's just carbonated water there is a moment when the taste is not only empty, but bitter.  Not only disappointing, but completely unfulfilling.  Have you doubted your tastebuds before you believed the soda was to blame?  Have you ever doubted yourself that way, in a moment of disappointment and shock?  Have you ever blamed yourself for not getting what you expected?

Sometimes what we want seems so simple and sometimes, still, we just don't get it.  

What Elton Teaches Me

Sometimes I get to watch my puppy nephew, Elton.  He's 4 months old, a Chihuahua-Dachschund mix, very smart and extremely loving.  He's also a great teacher.  Here's what I've learned (so far) from spending time with this guy:

People really do want to connect, but they desire a safe way to do so.  Dogs are one of the ways we can safely communicate with each other.  I notice while walking Elton, that people say Hello and smile more often than when I'm walking alone.  I think I'm still learning about this phenomenon, but in the meantime I've definitely learned that I really like saying hello to my neighbors and smiling back at them. 

Watching Elton walk down the sidewalk with such unabashed pride and joyful innocence makes me smile from someplace deep inside of myself.  It's heartwarming.  It's a genuine love for a living thing, outside of myself, simply because.  I can only imagine this is multiplied exponentially with one's own children.  

Every living thing (but especially Elton) needs warmth and touch.  Elton is unapologetic in his asking for love and comfort when he needs it.  He has no problem requesting that his needs are met.  He finds his way into a warm lap or a warm bed when he is ready to rest his weary puppy body.  And when he gets there, he releases.  He sleeps til he dreams.  He trusts and he enjoys.  He just knows how to sleep, and it seems the key to that is a willingness to be vulnerable and to trust the world around him.   Elton is teaching me that one of the ways I can sleep better is to trust that everything is just as it should be.  The world, my life, is safe and complete.  Tomorrow morning I will eat breakfast and go on a walk and see some friends and maybe play a little, too. And even if there isn't someone for me to curl into at night, there are people on this planet who love me, and that's enough.  

Be willing to wait for the reward.  Elton is realizing that there are rewards for good behavior.  He's learning that sometimes he has to wait for his treat, and it's very frustrating, but he's learning that it's out of his control (for the most part).  So he does what he knows, he continues to learn what he can, and waits for the rewards he knows he is due.  

I know this is not ground-breaking blog material.  There are probably hundreds of books, blogs, poems, and elementary school papers written on this very subject.  I don't mind.  It's new to me.  I've been successfully avoiding the obligation, responsibility, and commitment it takes to take care of another living being, and that doesn't just apply to babies and puppies and kittens.  It applies to my relationships with people, including myself.  

Elton is teaching me that there are deeper sacrifices we can make in life.  Fully taking on the responsibility of another living being includes a great amount of sacrifice, but the rewards are rich and cannot be replaced with any other experience.  And when it comes from a genuine place of care and love, it feels nothing like obligation.  It feels like a gift, to give from the heart, a certain tenderness or care we are born to give to each other and ourselves. It makes me consider the places in my life I've been unwilling to let go of the need to fiercely protect my independence and comfortable single life, and in that choosing, have locked out the deeper experiences of loving.  

I still have a lot to learn from Elton.  But I am grateful for his precious puppy life and his absolute willingness to just be here with me while I learn about loving.  

And I'm grateful to the people in my life who have loved and do love me while I learn so many things about how I want to love and be in this world.  

Thanks, Elton.  

For What I'm Worth

I'm leaving my job.  I'm making a slightly lateral move to another restaurant.  I have lots of creative reasons why I'm doing this:  'Because I'm ready for a new challenge.'  'Because any movement is better than standing still at this point.'  'Because I want to learn something new.'  'Because there is no existing opportunity for upward mobility.'

All of these are true, but they are not the absolute truth.  The absolute truth is, I could make more money and work less hours somewhere else.  Period.  I have known this absolute truth for the past 6 years, and still I've staid.  I'm curious about this.  I'm curious why, after losing health insurance, taking a pay cut that was masterfully disguised as a hypothetical raise, being told that the benefit to taking on more responsibility was the opportunity to work more hours, and receiving little or no reward, financial or otherwise, for hard work, dedication, and consistency, I STAID.  I didn't question, I didn't demand, I didn't look for another job.  I just staid and accepted that something was better than nothing.  I found the good in it and focused on that instead.

I've been talking to the other women I work with (it's a predominantly female staff, and all of the people sharing my position/wage/responsibilities are women), and asking them why they stay.  I've been asking them if they're happy, if they make enough money, if they are satisfied with their jobs.  Every single one of them has answered with a resounding NO, to each question.  I started thinking about some things.  I started thinking about the fact that women are still payed significantly less than men in our culture.  I started thinking about the struggle my roommate is going through in asking for what she absolutely deserves at her job.  I started thinking about the time when I asked for a raise and was told, NO, and I hadn't planned for that response.  I remembered what it felt like to then have to make the conscious choice to stay and make less than I deserved.

And there are two conversations worth exploring here; the first is the topic of women in the workplace and fair and equal pay / the second is the topic of women in this life and asking for what we want, need, and deserve.  This post will be about work, maybe because it's a safer subject than the latter.  But there will most certainly be a post about the second.  In a sense, they're one in the same, they are enmeshed, but still can be separated for the sake of examination.

I'm realizing that, in more ways than I've even begun to know, women are constantly staying quiet.  There is a fear, maybe ancient, that we will lose something if we speak up.  Our culture, and most definitely our corporate culture, has created an environment that is designed to bring shame to women who ask for more.  Everything around the topic of money is veiled in secrecy.  Why CAN'T we talk about how much we make?  Why isn't it our right to discuss money in the workplace?  There should be no secrets if it's done fairly.  We have been conditioned to believe that we are breaking a cardinal rule when we ask someone about their salary, while no one even flinches at the gossip flung around the break room about someone else's marriage or sex life or neuroses.  A culture of absolutely blinding bullshit storms has been designed to keep us all from knowing or asking.  What about the truth?  What about transparency?

I'm thinking, also, about how women disown their responsibility to change this.  How we blindly accept the discomfort of accepting less than we deserve.  We blame ourselves, we feel empathy for the business that isn't ours when it's struggling, we invest our time, energy, talents, and more into something that will never pay out.  It is a horrible investment.  We stay when there is clearly no room for growth.  We stay when we aren't getting paid enough.  What would happen if we all said, we'll leave if you don't meet this request? What would happen if we stood together and asked for what we want?  What would we do, collectively, if the answer was no?

If the answer was yes, we would get paid what we deserve (that would be nice, right?).  If the answer was no, there would be a lot of very talented, dedicated, hard-working women looking for work.  What could we create then?  There's a lot of possibility there.

I know that I can only start with me, and I am.  I'm leaving the familiarity of this underpaid position and asking for more.  But I want to do more than that.  I want to find the white guy in the wizard's chamber and pull him out from behind the wheels and levers and microphone where he's been telling us that the world we live in is good as it is, and I want to kindly send him to a great therapist and burn it all down, but not before getting behind the microphone once just to say, 'You can have it, ladies.  You deserve it, ladies.  Ask for more.  You have always had permission.  And thanks for all your hard work.'

Still Craving, After All These Years...

I like spoonfuls of sugar.  I have a relentless desire for sweetness.  If you don't learn it from knowing me, you'll see it from being around me.  If somehow you completely miss it, you've got much bigger problems than I can wrap my head around at this moment.

I often get pissed at the the ways we all regulate our sugar sharing in life.  Everyone's rationing it out like it might disappear suddenly.  Protection, defense, denial, proving.  All these powerful ways we find to keep what we've been given to give, just in case we might need it eventually.

I can't relate.

For years I gave it away, and quite honestly it felt great.  After some time I realized that no one was willing to reciprocate and I've been trying to reconcile that for a while.  I'm not that great, really.  Not that humane or understanding or compassionate.  I just love loving.  I just so want to know it, the way some people become obsessed with steam engines or native plants or solar systems or specific religions.  That's the way I want to love another person.

And even though I know it's so much simpler than that, I'm still here in this moment.  Still craving the experience of complete surrender, after all these years.

Random Thoughts (while watching a movie)

I would like to take a vow of silence, for at least a day, sometime very soon.  (I will write about it)
Kissing and Hugging are very cute things humans do.
Cancer is very scary and a sad sad thing.  I hate it.
I have no idea how long it takes to bake a potato.  I'm baking one right now so we'll see.
Sad people create neat things like art and poetry.
A definite measure of a true/good friend is when you aren't embarrassed in front of them.
I'm alright with having a non-productive day today.
Yes, this idea of silence feels really good.
I'd like to dress up as a cowgirl and go line dancing.
I'd like to spraypaint something.  Like the street.  I'd like to make a grand statement that way.
What's important to me: FUN and LOVING.
I'd like to write more fairytale-like stuff.
I am blogging and watching a movie and just bought a book on Amazon.  I think in addition to a day of silence I am going to have a day without technology.  I'll read my newly purchased book that day to reconcile things.
When I spraypaint the street, I'll also say things like: Have some tea -or- I love this -or- Take pictures -or- Baked potato.

Tea Water

Love was seeing you, see me.
It was me laying myself down
(a deliberate choice)
Onto the dark, wet earth
and willfully undressing
while you, unmoved and feigning patience, 

watched me place each piece
of clothing around my body
While you watched me unbutton and surrender
To you
All while I watched, as long as my eyes were still my own to claim,
You, watching me
Unzip my flesh and gladly peel
My ribs open.
I desired to show you every part of me, although I didn't exactly.
My flesh and bones lay around me
as a worn and deflated, discarded costume
with the faint impressions of a life once lived within it.
Then Love was you, I thought,
gathering what you could of me
(what you thought were the most important parts)
and wrapping the sullied, cold heavy pieces of me
in your jacket
and carrying them to a place you called Home
Where I would never consider pulling myself open
that way
again.
Where you painted onto my tongue, a story that was never meant to be mine.
Where you pieced me together with your purpose.
Then Love became me,
handing you your worn, familiar jacket
and sweetly kissing your forehead
walking naked from the waist down
wearing only a sodden wool cloak, soaked through,
into the ocean this time
to become a solute dissolved into the salt water
Not really knowing what would become of me
but knowing that the dark and quiet expanse of that unknown felt
the more desirable choice.
Death and love are as real and inescapable 

intangible and infinitely changing

infinitely beginning and ending
as the mist that becomes the cloud that shades the sun
that releases the rain that feeds the herbs and the rivers
that become the tea water I sip
as I sit alone
whole and waiting.

The Meaning of Love

Love.  It's this intangible yet dominating, thing?  It's what we deny or seek every day of our lives.  It is innate, it is necessary, it is a shape-shifter, ephemeral and constant at once.
I'm attempting to define it, which is a funny thing about language and human beings.  But, I'm going to try, so that I can then attempt to live by it/with it/through it more intentionally.  This week I'm going to examine it.  Or maybe this month.  Until I'm finished.  I'm going to ask people and I'm going to ask myself again and again.

Here's the first attempt:
Love is the soul's nourishment.  It is something we all want to know, but don't just know how to do.  It is an action and a state of being.  It is vulnerable and soft and very very big.  It looks through soft, naked eyes and sees just what is in front of it.  Just sees.  It surrenders to it's own softness and vulnerability.  Looks adoringly at it's own complexity and changing definition.  Love commits.  Love makes difficult choices.  Love is, intention and energy.  Love is, thoughtful.  Love listens.  Love is patient.  Love is very quiet (it doesn't have to say much to be understood) and has it's own unique style of humility.   The kind that isn't stoic or proclaiming.  Just, doesn't mind waiting because it is enough on it's own.  Love is enough on it's own.  It can stand alone and will stand alone waiting.  Love is loose and flexible.  Love is sure of itself.  Love is not controlling or demanding, but has boundaries and needs, too.

Perfect For You.

We are driven.  We are driven by desire, needs, urges, emotions and a plethora of other base level experiences far beyond our conscious knowing.  It's an interesting topic because it brings awareness to the fact that we are barely ever in control of our lives and choices.  We are driven by the unconscious yearnings and urges of our bodies and minds.  And hearts, of course.  So we are driven, and even examining that word reinforces the fact that we are controlled, compulsive, carried away and stimulated by the currents of our subconscious.  It makes life seem more and less interesting knowing that this is absolutely true for every human being that exists in this moment.  It makes life pleasantly simple and frustratingly uncontrollable at once.

What I'm thinking about, specifically, relative to this topic, is the fact that we become driven by things through conditioning that occurs throughout our lives.  For instance, a young woman might learn that if she examines and understands what other people want from her, she can produce those desired qualities in herself, and therefore, receive love and validation.  Love and validation are powerful rewards.  So, at some point she is consciously driven by this desire to be what other people want her to be.  And then, at some point, it floats into the subconscious and settles there where it will be sustained by the sporadic love and validation of the people she molds and shapes her life to match.

Well, we can collect lots of beliefs that drive us throughout our lives, and never even know that we've been letting the people and experiences of our past take turns in the driver's seat while we keep getting pushed to the back of the bus.  Eventually, the bus gets so crowded we can't even see where we're going.  We can't even get close enough to the front to ask, let alone take a turn at the wheel.

To be a little less abstract and a little more personal, what I noticed today was that I've been sitting in the back of the bus for a long time. A lot of time has passed that way.

Today I was thinking about what I want.  I've been thinking about it a lot lately in general, and it's comical that I have to sift through layers and layers of what I think everyone else wants to get to the truth of my own desires.  I've been trying to be perfect for everyone.  In a lot of ways, I've gotten quite good at it.  I'm stopping.  I'm pushing my way to the front of the  bus.  I keep running into people who stop me and say, 'You're not serious, are you?  You've never driven anything in your life.'  The way they say it is different and unique to each of them.  And I understand, they're driven too.  We all are.  It's what we know.  When they stop me I hear them and remember them.  I recognize their pain, too.  I hear the ex-boyfriend say that he knows what's best for me, why don't I just sit down and let him take care of the trip.  Or the old friend say that I'm most fun when I'm drinking, it's my role to be the party girl, just stay back with us we're fun too.  There are so many people and I loved a lot of them.  But there's a part of me that is feeling unapologetic and determined to have my turn at the wheel.

[sic]

A Latin adverb.  A very useful Latin adverb that serves the distinct purpose of reminding the reader that whoever it was that originally wrote or transcribed the quote, spelled or used a word incorrectly.  A very proper way of saying, 'I'm not the one who messed this up, just so you know, but I'd also like to point out that it was misused and that I saw it and I'm aware of the proper usage and I want everyone to know that I'm smart, OK, because I caught the error.'

I'm thinking I'm not a fan.  I'm thinking, wouldn't it be nice if the person just fixed the mistake. I mean, we all could probably guess from the context what was intended.  Why ridicule?  Why do we always have something to prove?

I'm sensitive to this lately.  I am becoming more and more aware of my tendency to defend, justify, and prove myself and my choices.  And I see where, in my life, I ask people to do the same for me.   I'm starting to think it's all really ridiculous, the amount of time we spend justifying our choices.

The simple fact is, we are going to make mistakes.  Lots of them.  I've just begun to fully accept that this is a true and inescapable fact.  I'm not going to be perfect at life, and the harder I try, the less enjoyable it is.  And really, what's the point of living if you aren't enjoying it?  That's all we've really got.  And, even after years of therapy and analysis and trying trying trying to figure out how to live a model life based on other people's standards, I'm still over here making big and small mistakes.  The only thing I can do at this point, in my opinion, is accept that I'm trying my best and enjoy the experience of it all.

I'd like to stop pointing out anyone's errors, including my own.  I'd like to stop [sic]'ing anyone's life, including my own.  If I'm not going to help myself or anyone else by gently whispering in their ear that they've misspelled a word or taken a step in the wrong direction... if I'm not willing to reach out a hand and lovingly guide them back to themselves... if my pride or my need to be seen as right or smart or superior gets in the way of just, being loving to someone else... I'm going to at least keep quiet.  If I can't find it in myself to help, I'm going to at least be sure to not point out to the rest of the world that someone else is doing it even less perfectly than I am.

That's my goal, at least.  Today, I'm going to take one tiny step closer to that goal by... feeling empathy for myself because I do want to be loved and I do seek it in imperfect ways sometimes and that's a painful struggle for anyone who's been there and damn I just feel kind of sorry for myself for being there and I am not going to kick myself while I'm already down because I think I've disappointed anyone in how I've chosen to find some comfort today.  This one day of this one life I have.