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?