It's a Magikal Life

Words from Ellen Bass

2010-09-16T21:21:00.000-07:00

"to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again."
— Ellen Bass

Love songs make me wanna hollah (and scrap)

2010-09-16T14:05:00.000-07:00

So, what's the deal with love songs? I'm not afraid to disclose that, from time to time, I tune into our lousy radio stations here and catch myself (okay, I'm fully conscious of what I'm doing) singing along (more like busting a lung) to Phil Collins. And, lately, since I'm singing, I'm paying more attention to what is actually being said. Maybe you already know this but most "love song" lyrics essentially tell the same story which goes something like this: "Baby, I need you. I'm going to die without you. Since you've left me I'm nothing. I might as well go kill myself because my life without you is absolutely and completely meaningless." So, I ask again, what's the deal, folks? Why do we listen to this garbage and, better yet, why do we believe it?! And, for those of you who don't believe this crap, good for you, but the fact that there are millions of songs out there that spout this nonsense means that someone's listening (and not just a select few.)

I'm bringing all this up now because yesterday I watched an old Roman Polanski film called "Bitter Moon" with Peter Coyote and a hot French woman. For those of you who haven't seen the film, here's a quick synopsis:

Peter, whose name is Oscar in the film, meets hot French woman and they have this passionate sex and love affair until he gets bored and loses interest because, as Common says so eloquently, "good sex ain't gonna keep you." So, he kicks her out - numerous times except she keeps coming back and, eventually, begs on her hands and knees that she can't live without him. "You can do anything you want," she says. "You can have other women, you can hit me," blah, blah blah. (Yes, she actually says these things.) And so, he does just that. He sleeps around. She cooks him dinner. He says it tastes like crap. She cuts her hair and dyes it blond. He says, "Oh, I didn't know it was Halloween." And on and on. Eventually, she gets really sick and he softens for a moment and offers to take her on a trip to Martinique except, when they're on the plane, he fakes having a heart attack and the plane takes off without him. For two years, he goes on a sex spree until he gets hit by a car and hot French woman returns to France (after being in Martinique for those 2 years), finds out about his accident, visits him at the hospital and yanks him out of hospital bed, causing him to break his back (he already had a broken femur from the accident). He becomes paralyzed from the waste down, ending his sexual adventures and she becomes his nurse. You can imagine what kind of nurse she is. They eventually get married because, as he says at one point in the film, "It was like we were two survivors of a major catastrophe and we couldn't be without one another."

I read the comments at the end of the film (it was posted on Youtube) and most people really didn't like it and yet I found myself fascinated. I think the film did an amazing job of exaggerating the notion of co-dependency to the point where the actual mechanism of it and how it's played out becomes so obvious to the outside viewer, one can't help but see how destructive this pattern is. Unfortunately, I think there's a lot of this going on in modern relationships; maybe not to the same extent but it's there in varying degrees. Why is this? Why do we feel like we need another person to be in our lives in a romantic way so that we have meaning? Why not create meaning first? And what is love?

M. Scott Peck in his book, "The Road Less Traveled," defines love as "the will to extend one's self for the purpose of nurturing one's own or another's spiritual growth." He continues to say, "Love is as love does. Love is an act of will - namely, both an intention and an action. Will also implies choice. We do not have to love. We choose love." Following this definition, then, love and domination cannot co-exist. Love and abuse cannot co-exist. Loving one another becomes an act of mutual symbiosis where both organisms are mutually benefiting one another and mutually thriving. In order for this to happen, we first need to know who we are and love ourselves. To love well means to have a healthy ego and a healthy amount of self-respect which results in healthy boundaries. No self-loving woman would have stuck around with Oscar. The second he even hinted at abuse, she would have been gone and wouldn't have looked back. (This can be the case for a man who's with an unhealthy woman or in an unhealthy relationship.)

The problem is that most of us have a distorted view of love. We confuse lust with love, "deep connection" with love, good sex with love, and emotionally bonding with someone as love (just to name a few. I'm sure you have your own list.) But the truth is that love is selfless. Love supports growth and personal freedom. Love supports our highest purpose on this planet. Love is boundless. Love doesn't covet or get jealous. Love isn't stingy.

I be-friended a woman recently who used to be a third grade teacher. One of her many acts was developing a curriculum to teach the meaning of love to children. One may scoff at this. Teaching love? But, we inherently know how to love...right? That may be true. I think children do inherently know how to love. The problem is that what they inherently know is oftentimes taught right out of them. We all do know deep down what it means to love and, more importantly, how it feels to love. But, how often to we act on this knowledge? How long does it take for a child to become cynical and jaded? My younger brother is 11 and he's got a pretty good dose of this. Sure, there's a place for good constructive criticism of the world and one's surroundings but, in my opinion, this thinking should not replace the strength of love and the act of love.

I think maybe we have some re-schooling, folks. It's never too late to go back for some re-education, right? Next book on my list is bell hooks, "All About Love." I know I could use some re-training and re-wiring of my neurons when it comes to love. Once, not so long ago, I was in bed with a man doing the make out thing. Earlier in the day I had a conversation with a loved one and it didn't go so well. It had to do with our relationship and how, to me, it felt like a sinking ship full of beautiful treasures. So, later, in bed with someone else (I wasn't breaking any agreements, or, in other words, cheating, just so you know), I felt miserable. I was going through the motions and not at all present. I finally said to who I was with, "You know, I had a really rough day and a very difficult conversation with someone. Can we just cuddle?" I think I maybe told him some of the details. (This is the point where those terrible magazines we read with titles like "What NOT to do in bed with a lover" would have something very harsh to say to me.) But, you know, I have this bad habit of being brutally honest. I can't help it. My heart waves around in the air like those flags on fishing boats that notify everyone how many fish were caught that day and what kind. Well, that night, my boat was empty. And so I was honest. And this man's response to me was, "I'll give you all the cuddle power I have." And he did. He wrapped himself around me like a thick, fuzzy blanket and though my heart still ached, I felt understood and heard. In this moment, a profound act of love (and grace)was bestowed upon me. Cuddle power - it's what we can all do for one another - metaphorically and physically. Remember the care bears? Yeah, well, they're for real.

Stilettos, anyone?

2010-09-08T14:19:00.000-07:00

Some days call for 3-inch heels and a mean walk that's aided by those heels, of course. Mind you, I never wear heels so these days are certainly interesting experiments in mind over matter (and balance). Today, I practiced walking in these little black monsters in my house before braving the walk between my door and the car. It's not a far walk but it's rough being that it's not really a path so much as chunky lava rock and tall grass. Heels were not made for this sort of territory but are more for the smooth sidewalks and asphalt of a city. Smart woman that I am, I grabbed my Chacos on the way out the door because, let's face it, heels ain't for no wimp and I'm not sure if I'm brave enough to make it through a whole day with these things strapped to my feet.

Nevertheless, in their defense, they give a body a little more "umph" even if it's slightly staccato in nature. Something about wearing them spouts, "Yeah, look at me up on these things. I know I'm hot. I bet I could even do the high-wire, no problem."

Here's a little history: high heels have actually been around for quite some time, dating back to the Hellenic period. Since then, they have gone through many transformations and, depending on the culture, have been worn for many purposes and by both genders. For example, Mongolian horsemen used them to keep their feet from slipping out of their stirrups and Egyptian butchers used them to keep their feet out of the blood and mess of their work. In this sense, high heels have quite a practical function.

So why am I wearing them and why do countless women wear them to work day after day? It's not like we're riding our horses to work or having to step through pig and cow parts along the way. (Well, at least not literally, maybe metaphorically.) I can't answer for anyone else but, for me, because I wear them so rarely it's like a new experience. The world looks a little different standing 3 more inches off the ground. Plus my calves bulge a little more and my hips sway differently and more, shall I say, enticingly. They're fun. In my case they're totally impractical. They're downright absurd, actually. But most things in life are anyway so, if you can't beat it, might as well join, or so they say.

Last night, I began seriously reading "The Continuum Concept." (I say seriously because I have this horrible habit of reading about 4 books at a time as if I'm some sort of literary junkie who can't get her fix on just one book. So, I'm attempting to focus on this book until completion - should be interesting.) The point is - yes, back to the bloody point - that the author, Jean Liedloff, experienced something quite extraordinary when she spent a substantial amount of time with various Indian tribes who lived (and hopefully still do) in the jungles of the Amazon. In stark contrast to our Western way of doing things and seeing things, the people of these tribes had no concept of unhappiness. She gives example after example of the ways in which they lived and how they didn't even have a word for "work." Here's an excerpt:

Here before me were several men engaged in a single task. Two, the Italians, were tense, frowning, losing their tempers at everything, and cursing nonstop in the distinctive manner of the Tuscan. The rest, Indians, were having a fine time. They were laughing at the unwieldiness of the canoe, making a game of the battle, relaxed between pushes, laughing at their own scrapes and especially amused when the canoe, as it wobbled forward, pinned one, then another, underneath it. The fellow held bare-backed against the scorching granite, when he could breathe again, invariably laughed the loudest, enjoying his relief.

All were doing the same work, all were experiencing strain and pain. There was no difference in our situations except that we had been conditioned by our culture to believe that such a combination of circumstances, constituted an unquestionable low on the scale of well-being, and we were quite unaware that we had any option in the matter.

But what if we realize that we do, indeed, have options insofar as how we react to what life throws at us? I remember this moment in High School like it was yesterday -

It was during my AP Biology class with Ms. Lentz. It was a gorgeous day and we were outside at the beach. The whales had come to town and we were watching them. I was walking alongside my good friend, Brittany, and we were having a conversation about the way things are set up in our neck of the woods, being the Western world. Even then as a 17-year old teenager, I had a strong sense that, excuse my French, things were fucked up and, though it appeared we were quite privileged, we obviously got the short end of the stick as far as cultures go. I don't remember our exact conversation but the gist was this: How is it that people have to work these ridiculous jobs that, admittedly, they don't really like, just so that they can have money to buy food that, really, they could grow themselves? How is it that our economy, our whole way of life, is based on consumerism? How shallow and empty is that?

Thirteen years later, I'm pondering the same thing and, moreover, I am wracking my brain as to how to exist within this sort of system in a way that feels like my soul is not being eaten. In all honesty, I could give a shit about money. That's my soul speaking. My mind says something quite different and echoes the study that was recently done where researchers found that, indeed, money does make people happy. Okay, maybe it doesn't make people happy but they found that when people made a certain amount, well above the poverty line, of course, they were better able to care for themselves and overall quality of life improved. I buy that argument in this culture, I do. However, in reading about the ways of indigenous people, I get the sense that they have access to a happiness we could never fathom in our capitalistic, competitive system. They don't compete with one another. They live communally, in genuine support of one another's overall well-being. They live in absolute harmony with the jungle that surrounds them, whereas, we are constantly fighting with nature whether it's spraying "Round-up" on roadside "weeds" (I put weeds in quotes because I don't really believe there is such a thing.) or mono-cropping or genetically modifying our food (even newly manufactured GMO salmon is being considered for commercial sale). We're constantly altering, meddling with, or downright fighting with nature to the point that, in my opinion, we're going to drive ourselves into extinction because the planet's going to finally kick us off for being such parasites. I can just imagine when we're gone the planet giving a great big sigh of relief then rubbing her planetary hands together and saying, "Good riddance!"

You might be asking yourself, how did this entry go from the history of high heels to human extinction? I'm not exactly sure myself only that walking on heels reminds me of our precarious position on the planet these days. On the one hand, there's some of us who seem to "get it" even if it means not taking one of those godforsaken plastic bags home with us from the grocery store. And then there's those of us who, quite frankly, need to wake the fuck up. I say to those people, "Get your head out of your air-conditioned Hummer (which, by the way, is, like, so passe) and smell the exhaust." In all seriousness though, I wonder if there's a way to go back a little. It's doubtful that those of us in the Western world could easily return to a life on the land like the Indians. (Okay, maybe some of us could.) But, too many of us are so reliant on our iphones, our ipads and itouches and ifarts and whatever else there is that a life in nature is downright scary. But there must be some compromise. There must be a way. I'm working on it. Until I come to some reasonable solutions, I leave you with a poem...

Plum juice
dripping down my arm
and chin
Fleshy and luscious softness
meeting my lips and mouth
Is there any sweeter satisfaction
than this intoxication
that inhabits the briefest and
most heavenly of moments?

Three Poems

2010-09-07T15:44:00.000-07:00

1.

When the cashier asks you,
"Would you like your receipt?
Kindly nod "yes" and later,
when you pull it crumpled from your pocket
instead of mindlessly tossing it in the trash
write some words on the back
that only you know how to write
and slip it someplace random
but where someone will find it -
a library book,
a magazine at the check out counter,
a stranger's mailbox,
a phone book at a pay phone
You never know
whose life you might save this way.

2.

I think of you now
while I stand here sipping tea.
My clothes are cast off for the night
and I gaze at my profile in the mirror.
My belly's extended,
full of risotto and chocolate cake.
How do I look differently to you now
since you haven't seen this body
in more than a year?
How do you look differently to me?

Sometimes I think of the moments ahead of me -
the moments yet to be experienced -
like oncoming trains.
What cargo do they carry?
What passengers?
What stories?
And when can I expect your train to arrive?

I wonder about the exact moment
we catch sight of one another
after such a long separation.
And, just before that,
will we sense each other's presence?
What will we say?
Perhaps I will tell you
about the night in my kitchen
when you stared into me so intently
it was as if you saw me completely
and how I had to bite my lip
and hold my breath
in an attempt to squeeze the tears back
because you would be half way around the world
in a matter of days.
Isn't this what we all want?
To be seen.

3.

This is my Sunday night:
An oil lantern to my left.
A mosquito coil
burning at my feet.
Two dogs scampering about
attempting to pounce
on the unseen creatures of the night.
A moonless and clear sky.
Sticky plum juice on my chin.
A stream of words still untying themselves.

Gotta love Wal-mart

2010-09-07T14:59:00.000-07:00

In case you can't tell from the picture, all those colorful bottles below the "Chemicals" sign are various laundry detergents and fabric softeners. Is this some sort of ironic joke? I mean, I know that those laundry detergents are made up of all sorts of nasty petrol chemicals and I only go near them to take funny pictures. But, your average Wal-mart shopper? Well, maybe they know but don't care or know but, hey, they're saving a few bucks. Who cares if the phosphorescent liquid is contributing to the poisoning of our water after it's dumped out of countless washing machines around the country (and planet?)

While I rarely shop at Wal-mart, I've been paying attention to this particular area just because I'm dumbfounded by it. It's as if my mind draws a total blank as to a probable explanation. At first I thought maybe this used to be the "Round-Up" section but the "Chemicals" sign has been there for almost a year now along with the laundry detergent underneath. And Round-Up has been in its place for a long time in the Lawn and Garden section. Even that doesn't say "Chemicals" above it.

Is this Wal-mart's way of being "transparent?" (I love this new buzz word that's being tossed around these days in the world of politics like the candy that Santa throws out to a frenzied mob of kids during a Christmas parade.) Somehow, I really doubt it. So, what's the story? Is it the act of some vengeful employee whose latest quest is to bring down Wal-mart one aisle at a time? What's next, the dog food section? I can see it now, "Cow, Pig and Horse Parts." Just say it like it is. Imagine how much less we would shop if we knew what we were really buying.

I guess this is just one of the world's mysteries that I will never know. Now that it's been documented, though, maybe next time I'll approach a manager, wink and say, "Hey buddy, nice sign above the laundry detergent" and see what he says.

It's a Tori Amos kind of day

2010-09-04T16:16:00.000-07:00

I don't listen to Tori Amos that much these days. She seemed to be what I needed when I was an angst-ridden teenager. (Yeah, remember those days?) But, every so often, she's exactly what I need - a good dose of melancholy mixed with a bit of anger and some good sensuality thrown in. I reached for her today and, by God, belted out every word as I crawled along the highway, stuck behind yet another person who doesn't understand that 40 MPH is the MINIMUM speed limit, not the maximum.

I think I'm coming to understand what it means to feel depressed. It's not something to be afraid of. It's something to sink into. Like a bitter melon or a pungent tonic. Just cringe and toss it back. Admittedly, it does feel like blackness constantly hovering over me and, periodically, leaning into me with its weight. Thank God (or Goddess) that I have writing to lift me out of what feels like an emptiness so complete, I realize I'm not really breathing. I think we all go through times like this where what's been for so long no longer fits. It's like trying to stuff ourselves into clothes we once wore and loved but are too damn small and maybe a little faded and frayed. And so change is necessary yet sometimes the most frightening thing.

I've spent so much time creating this little life for myself. I built my own house pretty much from the ground-up. Lived without electricity or a phone or a fridge for more than a year. Closer to two. I've planted hundreds of trees. I've established my own business. I have two dogs who are adorable. I've worked tirelessly to establish myself as this independent, self-sustaining, strong woman who can do it all and off-the-grid, no less. And that's great. I'm proud of myself. And, at the end of the day, this loneliness and darkness hits me so hard, it's as if I can see nothing else. Not the brilliance of the stars or the red glow of lava pouring new earth onto this little piece of the planet, not anything but black. And somehow, here in the dark, I realize (I think it's my Higher Self) that I'm in this process of re-defining who I am. It's like being in a cocoon. I have to go through this dark tunnel right now. It's part of a woman's journey; the hero or heroine's journey as it's often called. For so long I've identified myself as the quintessential Amazonian woman and now, it's a damn poor fit because it's left me alone on 3.5 acres of land wondering "what in the hell am I doing here?" I realize I've walked myself every step of the way and now, it's time to walk myself in a different direction.

My mind so wants to ask the endless questions: But where will you go? What will you do? You've established all of this here...what else could there possibly be? You live in Hawai'i, for God's sake, where so many people would just die to live! And on and on and on. It's all fear based. And it's also based on the fact that part of me is clinging to an old identity because, without that, who am I? Who are any of us if we are not defined by our work, our friends, where we live, if we are parents, etc. etc. Who are we without any of these labels? Who am I? Who are you?

Yesterday, after one of my more difficult mornings and afternoons, I decided to go for a bike ride. On my return home, I visited this small gravesite by the ocean. I sat down on one of the graves - it happened to be one of an infant who only lived for a day. To either side of him were his grandparents. Somehow, the understanding that I am going to die at some point lifted my spirits and not in the sense that you're thinking. I mean, the understanding I felt sitting there gave me permission to live it up because this is all I got. I don't think I believe in re-incarnation, at least, not in the traditional sense. I think that when I die, my remains will go back into the earth and fertilize the soil and that will bring forth new life. So, in a sense, the ending of my life will birth new life but I don't think I'm coming back into human form again. I'm always open to being wrong though.

I have these moments of absolute clarity and yet, slowly, ever so quietly and sneakily, that damn party crasher, Fear, moves in on me. Just when I think I'm onto something like being a writer or moving to California or going to see this man in France who I still long for, Fear puts up his black-gloved hand and says, "Oh no, no, no, you can't do THAT. Are you SERIOUS?! What could you possibly be THINKING?" And he stands there in my way like a big bully smoking his goddamn awful menthol cigarettes with his cocky little smirk and sunglasses. He never shows his eyes, the damn coward.

But, you know what, one of these days, I'll drum up enough love to pick him up and carry him off in my womanly arms and tell him, "Basta! You go sit in your little corner and sulk all you want but I'm going and you can't stop me."

Sometimes, we live in a place for a certain purpose and when that purpose is done, our time there is over. A little over a year ago, this man from France (who I mentioned earlier) was watching me in the kitchen while I was struggling with something. He had already asked if I needed help. (He was always asking me if I needed help) and, as usual, I said no and continued struggling on my own. So, he stood there and watched me. And finally, after some time of me still struggling, he smiled, shook his head and said in the most loving of ways, "You're all alone in the world, aren't you?" I don't think even he realized how accurate that statement was/is. And that's the trouble with being a pioneer in anything. It's a lonely position to fill because you end up being out there, all alone. And for a time, the pride accompanying such solo accomplishment is big enough to fill the growing void. But, at some point, the costs outweigh the benefits.

Now that I've set myself up as a pioneer woman, I'm not quite sure how to bow out of it. And yet, I know the answer will come in time. It's like planting a seed, origin unknown, and waiting for that little seed to get the message to sprout, each day checking to see what exactly it's growing up to be. I guess I'm still growing myself up. I'm not yet sure what I am. Then again, maybe none of us really know. We're all just pretending to some degree or another. Pretending to be happy and content. Pretending to love our lives meanwhile drinking every night. It's all just make-believe. I've seen people who seem to have it all - the house, the loving husband/wife, the beautiful child, the enviable job and yet, I see a deadness in the eyes. It's like the spark's been snuffed out.

I thought I had the answers by living "alternatively." I've always had trouble with the mainstream way of doing things. I've always been a rebel in my own way. If someone tells me I can't do something, you can be sure as hell I'm going to prove them wrong. I walk on the manicured grass instead of the designated pathways in fancy places because I can't stand convention and doing things because that's the way they're supposed to be done. As much as I love this side of myself, I'm starting to see the dark side, that being isolation.

I know there must be a way to live in community and still be a rebel. I guess this is the next part of my journey after my descent into the underworld where I must deal with this psyche of mine; namely Mr. Fear, himself. I have a feeling that when I get close enough to remove those glasses of his, I'll see he's really just a ghost telling an old story because that's the only one he knows. So I'll give him a new story: one of a woman courageous enough to leave her island of broken down dreams in search of a warm hearth where friends and family welcome her.

My, what a derriere you've got!

2010-09-02T16:04:00.000-07:00

Today, I have officially seen the most incredible ass. In-credible as in the literal meaning of the word when dissected - not to be believed.

It happened at the local Y where I recently joined (or rather, re-joined after a long hiatus.) Hands down, they've got the best pool in town. It's treated with salt as opposed to chlorine and so, I don't leave afterwards with a whopper of a migraine. I had just swum many, many laps, hurling my body through the water one long stroke after another, kicking my feet behind me. I am a lap swimmer at heart. There's something about swimming back and forth (or maybe hither and thither) along that solid black line painted on the bottom of a pool that calms my mind. And then there's the little sommersault in between that marks the end of one lap and the beginning of the next. I crave lap swimming and can't seem to ever get enough.

So, I'm done with my session for the day and I head to the shower. I whip off my bathing suit and enter the shower area except that there's an elderly woman sort of hovering in between me and the showers. I see only a partial profile of her as she is very gradually making her way out of the first shower stall. She says to me, "Oh, do you need to get in here?" and I respond, "Why, yes, I do. I would love to rinse off." And so she backs up into her shower stall and I pass by not taking any more notice of her until I exit the shower stall. And there it is. Wha-bam! I am mildly stunned for a moment and have to regain my composure. "What an ass!" my mind is shouting and I have to use ever ounce of willpower so as not to let out some kind of animalistic sound. This thing is large. And I mean LARGE as in ENORMOUS. I realize at this point that I am truly a terrible person because after she dons her muumuu (nothing else would enclose this mammoth of an ass), she is obviously struggling with her things and her crutches. And instead of offering to help her, I am mentally trying to figure out its exact dimensions. In the meantime, another woman, much less terrible and fascinated than myself, offers to help her.

At this point, you must be dying to know just how big this thing was. And its shape! The way it hung like two ample, ripe, genetically mutated pears that had been injected with some turbo growth formula. My guess is that this ass was at least 4 feet wide. I'm talking each cheek was two feet WIDE and maybe that long as well because this thing HUNG ("Swing low sweet chariot...Comin' to carry me home!") Any man would be jealous at this woman's sheer length.

Fascinated, I watched her walk (well, more like, stumble) to her car, obviously weighted down by that mass now hidden underneath the thin pink fabric of her dress. All I could do was make small giggling sounds to myself and blame New Jersey. "It's because I'm from NJ that I'm like this," I kept telling myself. Poor New Jersey. It gets blamed for everything - even my sick fascination with a poor elderly woman's buttocks.

Ode to Dad

2010-08-24T18:00:00.000-07:00

These are the things I remember:

Pickle Dates. These took place directly after the Bucking Bronco rides where you would magically transform into a wild bronco and toss Robbie and I around, laughing probably as much as we did. Then, after we were all yelled and screamed out you would say, "Hey, let's have some pickles!" and we would dip into the Klaussen pickle jar to savor its splendid vinegary-salty wonders with contented smiles on our faces.

Teaching me how to ride a bike. I remember your hand on the back of the bike seat, giving me that necessary nudge to get me started, you running alongside my wobbly bike, me oftentimes crashing (one time on my face.) That was pretty bad. But I know one day I took off and there was no stopping me and it was just that little nudge that started me off!

Patooeyland. I remember the look of mischievousness when you told stories about the people who lived in Patooeyland and spoke in Patooey language and I remember the magic and wonder I felt while imagining life in this wondrous place.

Talks on the beach. You would always have a plethora of magazines to share and we would sit and talk and maybe read or stare out at the water and maybe daydream while looking at the endlessness of the horizon.

Going to you when I was 16 after being in Canada and after you and mom had long split up. I had only been seeing you for 2 days a week for awhile and, on this night, I told you that I wanted you to be more in my life. And you cried. It was in that moment that I saw your vulnerability as a man separate from your role as my father. And I felt this deep well of compassion and understood for the first time that you were doing the best you could and that life was just as hard for you as it was for me. And I loved you for this.

Stealing your socks. You always had the greatest argyle sock collection and I would pilfer them from your sock drawer and then subsequently receive endless streams of compliments from friends. And you never seemed to notice or, more likely, if you did, you never said anything.

Helping me through college, buying my first car which was actually a truck with yellow rearview mirrors and a badass loud exhaust system. Making the downpayment for a piece of land right near an active volcano (Lord, have mercy on you for this one), and telling me today that when I left for college you felt like you were losing a friend.

These are the things I remember now, safely stored in the treasure chest of my heart, similar to that treasure chest you brought home for me once that was filled with princess gear - every little girl's ultimate fantasy.

I think maybe I forgot some of these things - they're mixed in with so many other memories. I like pulling them out now, like vintage photographs of friends from long ago. And I smile as I see each one and recognize the beauty and wonder and joy you've imparted to me as a father and as a man on his own unique journey.

(Happy to be?) Sailing without a rudder

2010-08-23T17:53:00.000-07:00

I admit it. I often feel like I'm sailing without a rudder. I've gone through many ideas about this and I'm realizing more and more that the mind alone is not to be trusted. The mind in combination with the heart in combination with the soul, well, that's another story...

The problem is that somewhere along the way (Yes, I'm about to blame my poor parents because at some point, we have to weave our way through the dysfunctional labyrinth of our childhood so we can find our way to our true selves - not who we were told we were supposed to be) I came to believe in the mind. I've always thought I could think my way through things. If I just got the right book. If maybe I slept with that book by my side. Piles and piles of books of all persuasion but mostly self-help these days. I even had a dream once where I was on the beach of my hometown and the Marquis de Sade was buried in the sand alongside that detective guy from the X-Files. I wanted to uncover the X-Files guy (God forbid I uncover the Marquis de Sade with his insanely ravenous, debaucherous ways. Everything about him screamed out "DANGER!" to me at the time.) I had to choose: this grave or that grave. Which one? I chose and started digging and, of course, it was the Marquis de Sade who began to emerge from the sand. And what did I do? I threw books at him - piles and piles to keep him down, to keep him from coming for me. And this is how I dealt with that ravenous part of myself (because, of course, that's what the Marquis represented.) He was (and probably still is though I feel more integrated now) that part of myself that hungered for everything - sex, adventure, everything and all at once. He is my worldly appetite.

My point of this story is that who tells us who we are and what we are supposed to be doing? What's this idea of "supposed to?" Is it familial? cultural? societal? based on our gender? our age? our race? our sexuality? I'm asking this question rhetorically and, at the same time, looking for answers because I find myself struggling with this question of identity and what in the hell I'm "supposed" to be doing with my life. I dread that question people often ask upon meeting for the first time: "So...what is it that you DO?" How the hell am I "supposed" to answer this question? I do a lot of things but do these things define who I am?

In High School, I was a member of almost every possible organization I could be a member of...was it enough? And then in college, I said "fuck it" and became a kind of academic robot, spitting out papers, taking exams, going through the motions. And then I took my degree and went to Europe and weeded for 4.5 months straight in an attempt to unclog my brain. With each weed I pulled, it was like I was calling my soul back to my body. "Here, here, little soul...it's safe to come back now. Here, I'll give you a treat."

This weeding certainly helped but, somehow, I'm still stuck with this existential question of the purpose of my existence. I'm still waiting for the clouds to part and for God's voice to come streaming down, "Melissa Cardwell, wow, I finally found your file. Sorry it's taken me to get back to you on this one. We have quite a backlog here. Ahem, so, your life's purpose (drum roll) is...." I know. This line of thinking is totally absurd. Completely outrageous. It doesn't make any sense. And somehow, I keep waiting. Come on, God, I know you can do it!

Plan B is this: I wake up, I half walk/am half dragged down the street by my wild dogs, watch them sniff and pee and shit on imaginary things that only they can smell, eat breakfast, stare at the massive amount of weeds on my land that I just can't seem to even begin on, contemplate the meaning of existence while staring at the sky, wonder why I feel this angst when I live in such a beautiful place this feeling quickly followed by guilt about feeling this angst, maybe take a shower, head to work while contemplating my existence, then maybe get a couple bodies to rub which, for some unknown reason, heightens my levels of creativity so that I may pursue all avenues of fantastical thinking which propels me to bust this all out in some form of the written word.

Is it just the human condition to always want more and to never be satisfied with what we already have or is it just me? I'm somehow still at the oral phase only it's more metaphorical these days. I don't necessarily want to stick everything in my mouth but I want to FEEL everything. I want to feel the whole world in my hands. I want to go to India and see life and death on the same corner. I want to drink wine while sitting at random fountains in Rome. I want to help the women of Afghanistan to reclaim their power and educate the men so that they stop cutting off the fucking noses and ears of their wives, I want to sit with the dying and support women who are birthing babies into this world. I want to go to the Pyrenees. I want chickens. I want to bathe naked in rivers and pitch my tent in different forests. I want to be a nomad. I want to live in a sustainable ecovillage. And I want a tipi. Is this too much to ask?

So who am I? What do I do? Well, that is an open-ended question, isn't it?

Burn

2010-06-17T18:12:00.001-07:00

You keep me close enough
so I fall in love with you
over and over
and just far enough away
where you can still reach me
to break my heart
a thousand times

Like any hungry animal
I go for the bait
naive
to the sharp hook
waiting to bloody my cheek
and yank me out of my waters
where I can no longer breathe

I've died
so many times
I've lost count
I guess I've not learned the lesson yet
This time,
what bloody mess will I become?
what grovelling fool?
what lovesick dog
chained to my own unquenched desire
howling into the night?

Maybe this time,
just maybe,
I will finally learn
not to throw myself
into your fire
but rather,
to seek the luminescent waters
where I can swim
and swim deep
down into the center
of my own beautiful soul

So, when you're ready
to stop fucking around
you can find me here
and maybe join me
if I let you.

2010-05-26T12:22:00.000-07:00

Thank you to the writing Gods and Goddesses. I know I have gone through periods of time where I have ignored you but you must know by now that I can't live without you. When I have been drowning, you have saved me. When my heart has been shattered, you have shown me the beauty of the pieces and helped me to stitch myself back together again in a different form so that I may be more loving, more open, more wise. It is pen and paper that has saved me over and over again from myself, from my neuroses, from lost loves and heartache. Somehow, all the craziness makes sense when those words come streaming from those deep waters beyond thought, beyond consciousness, beyond logic.

Thank you, Rob B., for being a reminder to get to it.

Here's a relatively new poem that I wrote in the midst of feeling totally broken-hearted. I am realizing that it truly is a gift to have a broken heart. It is in the brokenness where we can really see who we are and where we can truly understand that nothing in the material world really and truly matters. All that really matters, all that has ever really mattered is how deep, how wide, how bold is our love.

This patient presence
In the midst of grief’s roiling storm
It is to you I throw out my arms
And plead
Great Goddesses
Great Grandmothers
Great Queens who have passed through
These wicked gates before me
Who have known this searing pain
Who struggled through the rips and tears
Of birthing yourselves
Into a world
Not so kind to women
Hold me now
Take my tears
So they may be transformed
Into the wine of remembrance
Of who I really am
For now
I am merely a slave
Shackled by this strange amnesia

Release me into the deep, dark
Waters of myself
Long before time ever mattered
Long before my flesh was touched
When I was still just a seed in the womb
Of the Goddess, herself
Birth me again
And this time I will remember
I am whole
Just as I am
There is no need for fear
Or defense
Only love lives in my heart and in my belly
And it is this love
I have to give
Wholly
Infinitely

In Suburbia Land

2009-07-12T20:38:00.000-07:00

There's a child screaming
across the street
for her mother to let her in
the front door

locks behind her
after it closes
shutting out
what's out there

there now
goes the tv
idles into gear
lulling her sweet mind
into common complacency
dulling the humdrum
constant thrum
of every day

longs to enter
the untamed spaces
unclaimed places
of the house
like its rigid corners
its hidden recesses
the places where
floor meets wall
wild seeps in here

here now
call the infomercials
an astroturf mat soft as grass
for your housebound dog
to piss on
while you toil away
at the office
and look,
who says
a woman must bleed
every month,
month after month?
Repunctuate your life

life enters this world
after 30 hours of labor
pitosin to speed the process
an epidural to numb the pain
"No one," says the new mother
"should need to feel that pain,"
lipstick carefully concealing her mouth

mine is open
hands dig into soil
to plant the next tree
which will bear fruit
painlessly, effortlessly
singing its roots through
the ground,
over and around rocks
the sun is silent as is the wind
in this land of walls,
in this division of sub-life

This black earth

2009-07-12T11:20:00.000-07:00

Branches, arching overhead
broad lines
written in the seamless
bend and curve
of light

Pours down
flutters with each
Leaf drop
releasing its life
to the earth
only to start again
by becoming the dark rich soil

I bend now
reaching down
with hands
to touch
no, to immerse
myself in the wonder
in the exact moment
of life happening
Life unfolding
heart aching
to open
its abundant depth

Reveals
its revelling in
the remembrance
of true beauty
found
in the smallest places
the curve of a hand holding
a crimson leaf
the softness of a forest floor
the faintest of smells
rain on jasmine
Always returning
to this dark ground
this island that births itself
over and over again
to remind us
to do the same

Love.Lust.Longing

2009-07-10T22:24:00.000-07:00

You do not know oceans
or continents
You're not familiar
with distance of any sort
or the impossible
gap of
time
where his day
is my night
and
he lives in my future
while I remain in his past

No, you do not know these things
nor do you care
You go on beating
your heart wings
and in each swift stroke
is a pulsation of remembrance
his legs wrapped tightly
around mine pinning us
to the same present
Belly to belly
mouth to collarbone
His body against my back
His eyes searching me
with a smile
and a question as large
as the Pleides
and yet, as he says
much closer

A question that spans
the endless miles between us now
It drapes itself across fields of flowers,
neighborhoods, whole city blocks
and the cities themselves,
entire countries and continents,
rivers, oceans, mountains,
great swathes of time
and time again
my heart, my mouth, my body
ache to meet yours again
To press myself to you
To say to hell with
time and distance and practicality
I will be there tomorrow
with flowers and honey
and a smile
and my heart

30June09

(Hmm, don't know about this ending but it stays for now. May get edited at some point in the future.)

An old yet beloved poem

2009-07-10T16:14:00.000-07:00

I don't remember when I wrote this, maybe a year ago. Found it today when I was searching through old writings. I remember I was feeling very full at the time...satiated with life.

Woven

my eyes so tired
but my heart content
with you
the universe
the vast umbrella of stars
the half-lit moon
drunken on itself

my life
like a web
reaching
repairing
stretching
inviting
new and wondrous
strands of thought
tastes
experiences

could it be so simple
as saying yes to what we want
no to what we don’t want?
if so,
may the stars bathe me in sweetness tonight
while the fire in my heart warms my soul
and your touch quenches
a longtime thirst

yes to you a thousand times
to life
to breath
to solace
to warmth
to new beginnings

New Year Glitch

2009-01-12T16:09:00.000-08:00

I had a dream last night about an old boyfriend. When I woke up, I had no recollection of the details, only the lasting sensation of a bittersweet dream. As the day has worn on, I have remembered the dream and the details have left me feeling this strange sense of sadness. It's the kind of sadness that comes when we allow ourselves to ask the difficult question, "what if?" I have a string of them - the details aren't necessary but it's a new year and I find myself wanting to do things in a new way so as to minimize future regret. Having said this, I'm still asking myself the "what if" questions.

Yesterday I ran into an old lover. (Do lovers ever really become old?) That was sad too. It's always sad for me when I lose a connection with someone, especially someone with whom I had a really sweet thing. But, what can I expect? I was gone and spending time with someone else in a beautiful, sunny country. That someone else is still there in the sun and I'm here, thousands of miles away struggling with post-vacation depression. And my last lover is with his old girlfriend, or so I hear. I am reminded of that movie, Once. If you haven't seen it, I recommend it. These two musicians find one another and make amazing music together. Watching how they are together, you imagine by the end that they will end up together but they don't. He has an ex-girlfriend who has inspired most of his songs and she has a child with another man who, in the end, she returns to. And so, while most of us hope for the romance of it all, life just sometimes works out a certain way. Maybe we have a choice and maybe we don't. Maybe we get attached to someone and maybe that's just the way it is even if someone better and more exciting and even more compatible comes along. Maybe it's out of comfort we stay with someone. Maybe it's just easier than investing our heart in a new thing that's so fragile. And so we stay with the status quo.

Nevertheless, it is a new year. For me, a new year always brings a certain amount of restlessness. You'd think I'd be over this having just traveled for three and a half months. I guess traveling wasn't the antidote. Instead, I think the antidote will be found in some serious soul-searching and, ironically, staying still for a bit. I've seen some things and need to integrate them. This integration, I hope will bring me to the next place in my life and will help me to clarify certain things. I welcome the newness and fresh insights. Bring it on.

Longing for New York City

2008-10-14T11:36:00.000-07:00

I recently took a trip to New York. I did the things I usually do which is sit in random cafes, eat bagel and egg sandwichs, drink overpriced coffee and do an absurd amount of people watching. There is something about New York that is so amazingly beautiful and so incredibly ugly that catches my heart in a way no other place does. There is something about New York that distinguishes it from any other city; there are many things actually. It's the sheer amount of people. The incredibly diverse faces in the massive masses overwhelm me and cause me to pause on the subject of what it means to be human. There are so many variations in New York. There's the guy in Union Square who blasts his music from Flashdance and proceeds to twist and contort his body in ways that ancient Indian yogis would envy. There's the man who cross-dresses in addition to celebrating St. Patrick's day with her (his?) dyed green hair and leprechaun shoes. There's the vendors from New Jersey and elsewhere who, every week, bring their wares to the city and make a spread that ranges from homemade goat's cheese and freshly picked lima beans to free fashion advice and poorly painted watercolors. There's the highschool kids just out of school cursing and sweating, schlepping their enormous bags around, one ear plugged with ipod headphones. There's the homeless man asleep on someone's stoop while 100 feet away people dine and discuss the economy over expensive wine. There's Wall Street and the East Village, there's avenue C and poetry cafes and Egyptian street vendors selling hot dogs and bands jamming out the sounds of the blues, the sounds of the city, the very sounds that make up the lifeblood of New York and take part in telling her story.

Though I've never lived there and probably never will, there is a part of me that always aches for New York. When I meet people from there (really from there), I instantly want to know their story. I want to hear about the grit, the noise, the endless stream of activity and life. In my mind, there simply is no place like New York. It exists in a category of its own. It's untouchable in that way, and yet, always changing. It's been accused of being superficial and shallow, congested and dirty. I see that and yet, I also see this incredible beauty despite of (maybe because of) these qualities. I can't explain it though I desperately want to. It's a feeling I have when I'm there and when I think of it. It's the feeling I get everytime upon entering the city on that Greyhound bus. It's a feeling that anything is possible and, because anything is possible, it's this spine-tingling mixture of excitement and dread. New York is a strange kind of soul elixir. She shakes us up a bit, stirs our cauldron and lights us up with her fiery breath. I feel inspired, dazed, moved and always aching for more and yet begging for her to stop enticing me through the streets, my calves and feet practically paralyzed with exhaustion. I want to swallow her up and I want her to fill me. New York is life - ugly, dirty, marvelous, moving, dancing...And here's a little piece of it I wanted to share. Union Square one random afternoon. The sun is shining, people are dancing and clapping. Just another day in New York City.

Love and sex

2008-09-02T14:05:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about the intersection between love and sex. Friends and I were talking recently about how a woman responds to sex differently than a man and that this difference has been scientifically substantiated. When we women have sex and orgasm, we are lucky to be flooded with that magical oxytocin elixir. Read below (taken from an on-line article written by Jennifer Roback Morse):

"Women connect to their sex partners, and to their children, due to a hormone called oxytocin. Women secrete this hormone during orgasm, and while breast feeding. Oxytocin creates a response of 'attach and connect.' It promotes attachment between a mother and her newborn infant, so that she will enjoy taking care of the helpless infant’s needs. Oxytocin promotes her connection with her sex partner, who after all, may become the father of her child. All this is nature’s way of keeping the woman bonded to her child and to her child’s father."

Interesting, huh? When talking to my mom recently about having sex and not wanting to be attached to the person, she said essentially, "Honey, you'd have to have a heart of stone to not become attached." And she's absolutely right. It's amazing how having sex with someone almost instantaneously changes our view of that person. All of a sudden, he has a golden aura about him. His words are like music and his touch is pure magic. I find myself thinking that having casual sex is a dangerous act, indeed. It's like playing russian roulette with our fragile hearts. And yet, I am too afraid to surrender my heart to fully be in love. In my mind and body, love = serious pain. The poem below is my attempt to explore all of this. I hope you enjoy.

Touching you

I touch the stars
Moonlight streams across your face
Just feel, you say
Feel the fire
and all the oceans
the wet forests
and driving rains
Feel me
and God entering you

Skin to Skin
God is present in that smallest of spaces
between two naked bodies
even if we refuse to feel such presence

I don’t want to fall in love
I later tell you
But, how do I not do this
when you are so close and deep?
Your very breath enters me, sweet and intoxicating

How painful to keep a heart guarded
And yet, how necessary for me
now
I have not entered the fire
but will myself around it
taunt it even
throw things into it
watch them burn up
and dissolve into smoke and ashes
sometimes I even claim the fire as mine
but it’s just a game
just play

I have had friends tell me
they were born to be mothers
born to something clear as pure truth

Me,
I have inklings
I have lusts
and imaginings
The fire dances wickedly in my soul
and certain things touch me,
deeply
like music
like new lovers whispering sweetness
like the ocean roaring its white foam
around my body
like singing voices in harmony
like naked skin

But, my dark heart
feels scarred

beyond

such blue outlined knowing
of real love
Too afraid
of that black abyss
waiting to swallow me up
that’s what falling in love
feels like

I prefer now to just dance
heart open to other things
not falling in love
not that

The burden of the Musings

2008-08-26T21:02:00.000-07:00

A number of you have asked me where have I gone? To be completely honest, I was on a bit of a creative hiatus. The juices just weren't flowing - at least in the direction of words. But I find the muse is teasing me again and demanding of me to stop being lazy and to begin again my love affair with the word and with life, in general. So, I'm gonna start slowly and softly.

But I'm back...

The Silent Articulation of a Face

2008-04-23T16:50:00.000-07:00

I just wrote my heart out and half of it was lost. I'm too distraught to try to recreate it but here is an equally appropriate Rumi poem:

Love comes with a knife, not some
shy question, and not with fears
for its reputation! I say
these things disinterestedly. Accept them
in kind. Love is a madman,

working his wild schemes, tearing off his clothes,
running through the mountains, drinking poison,
and now quietly choosing annihilation.

A tiny spider tries to wrap an enormous wasp.
Think of the spiderweb woven across the cave
where Muhammad slept! There are loves stories,
and there is obliteration into love.

You've been walking the ocean's edge,
holding up your robes to keep them dry.

You must dive naked under and deeper under,
a thousand times deeper! Love flows down.

The ground submits to the sky and suffers what comes. Tell me, is the earth worse
for giving in like that?

Don't put blankets over the drum!
Open completely. Let your spirit-ear
listen to the green dome's passionate murmur.

Let the cords of your robe be untied.
Shiver in this new love beyond all
above and below. The sun rises, but which way
does night go? I have no more words.

Let soul speak with the silent
articulation of a face.

I Want

2008-04-08T17:23:00.000-07:00

Here’s the thing:

I want you
and…

I want myself
I want the sky
the moon at night
blazing through the clouds
the hard rain that comes down in sheets
my skin soaked through
water bleeding into bone

I want your mouth
and…

I want my own mouth
words streaming straight from the heart
my throat filled with sunlight
my chest free and breathing easy

I want your hands
and…

I want my own hands
open and dancing
spirals of life curling in them
bursting out and up

I want to curl into you
press against you
arch and rock
I want to thread our limbs together
and lose my end and your beginning

And then

I want to peel myself back
take back all parts
this life
is mine
and mine only
this body
is mine
and mine only

There is
A thin blue stream
flickering inside of me
pulling at the threads
of my life always
turning me around
widening the path
shortening the distance
between me and G-d
This path I must follow
I have strayed from it
many times
in search of love
I will not do that again

I will not give up my heart
will not surrender my voice
will not ignore the willful callings
will not fall asleep on my soul

Divine love is strong inside me now
Flaming heat roaring loud racing towards itself
always
and holding my hand carrying me along

Carry me
heart aflame
burn up untruths
grind down old stories
rip apart worn-out ideas of self
blaze new paths
speed so fast and yell over the wind
free
freely
freedom
this is what it looks like
remember this
remember
remember

2008-04-02T15:48:00.000-07:00

"Our ability to live in peace with each other depends first and foremost on our ability to accept all that is different between us.

I want to get closer to you, but let me be who I am.
I welcome you coming closer to me, while respecting who you are.

On our own individual paths we are all looking for the bread, the water, the wind, and a dignified life.

And yes, we all cling to love."

***Idan Raichel

Blast from the Past

2008-03-27T13:39:00.000-07:00

From an old journal during my trip to Sicily. May you find it as entertaining as I do.

26 Feb 02

So there I was in La Valle dei Templi. A bit of a red-faced morning since I got on the bus just as it pulled up in Agrigento meaning that I had to wait for 30 minutes. Numerous people came up to me asking if this was the bus for the Temples. “Si.” And where do you buy a ticket? “A la stazione.” All the while I sat there, my pockets empty of any sort of ticket. I never needed a ticket before. Buses in Italy seem to work on a sort of honor system. That is, most buses. Eventually, the bus driver boarded, followed by various people all having tickets in hand. Oh, I’m a real big schmuck, I thought. When he asked for mine, I said dumbly, “Oh, non posso comprare uno qui?” No, you idiot, you already told half the people on this bus that they had to go to the station to buy one. He sort of rolled his eyes and with a dismissal of his hand told me to go to the bar in the station. Right.

But I ended up in the right place. The Valley of the Temples. A name such as this conjures up so many images, doesn’t it? None of which completely met my expectations. In my closed-eyed fantasies, my mind stirred up images of towering columns of half-washed away marble, young flowers shooting out of long ago excavated tombs, soft amber light falling on ruins, people’s houses built long before Christ. I imagined myself running my hand along the partially eroded human sand castles, my intuitive mind somehow tapping into the lives that were led here so long ago.

The columns were definitely there and so was Giuseppe. “Una groupa? Una groupa?” No, no groupa. Definitely no group. Uh-oh. “Lone woman! Lone woman!” I could practically hear the radar going off in his round head. Everything about him seemed round. I suppose it was the combination of shortness and, well, fatness. Let’s not be eloquent here. He certainly wasn’t.

He had been in the middle of eating a panini when he called out to me. His mouth was full, bits of white chunks lodged into his teeth and moist whiteness wedged into the corners of his mouth. He followed me even though I clearly said I wasn’t with a group (nor did I want to be) and continued talking to me in his thick Sicilian tongue. Thick both in language and unswallowed food that seemed to be fermenting in his mouth. How is it possible that it takes a man 10 minutes to swallow one mouthful of food?! Maybe he has a salivary gland problem.

He was mildly interesting. He told me about some of the temples we walked past. I understood enough of his Italian to be slightly engaged. And then, of course, the conversation strayed into that same dull place it always does when a man is so uncreative in his wooing tactics. So when were you born? You like pizza? You like dancing? Let me take you out dancing and for a “bueno pizza,” digging his pointer finger into his cheek and twisting it everytime he said, “bueno pizza.” This gesture made me laugh with its childish ridiculousness. Bad move since he got the impression that he was amusing me. Even when I said I understood him, he frantically gestured and repeated the same things over and over again. I know Agrigento well so at six I will pick you up and we will eat a “bueno pizza.” The finger again.

I must admit that I silently contemplated the idea. Hmmm. A night alone with a possible bottle of wine or going out with this slightly irritating man for a “bueno pizza?” No finger this time. Wine? Pizza? Wine in bed eating chocolate, reading a good book or sitting across the table, having to watch this man eat and talk at the same time? Just as my decision seemed clear and amidst Giuseppe’s perpetual questioning (sounded more like an irritating buzz at this point), the round man farted. Loud. I heard it. And immediately following it, he began clucking. Just like a chicken. The round man had turned into a farting chicken. No, no, no, I will not go out with you and have a bueno pizza. Thanks but no thanks. Okay then, niente. I’ll see you, he said. Probably not.

And you think the story’s over but it’s not. Not yet. I did see beautiful temples. I ran my hands over them and placed a flower in the grotto of a ruined stone formation in blessing for a friend. I saw empty tombs and crouched into one where I smelled piss. Tomb turned outhouse. I wandered through flowers, as the strong wind raced across my face and through my clothes. It was all very beautiful and somber. And then I was finished. Tired of fantasizing. Tired of walking. Somewhat tired of having only myself with whom to share thoughts.

I went to buy a bus ticket since the old one had expired by ½ hour. I could feel this man’s eyes on me. The radar. The look. Not again, I thought. I can’t even play along this time. Can’t answer his stupid questions. He came up to me. “Che bella!” One rotten tooth came at me. His hair was slicked back and he had gunk in the corners of his eyes, like he had just woken up and only thought of slicking back his hair with greasy pomade. He touched my face and came close. I grumbled something in English. Pointless, I know, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the fire burning in the pit of my stomach and my blood vessels that felt on the edge of a great big messy explosion. My grumblings got louder and I started pacing back and forth, him following close behind. Where is that goddamned bus?! “Do you like dancing?” “Nope.” “Do you like beer?” “Nope. I like the bus. That’s the only thing I like.” After what seemed like years, the bus pulled up and he followed in his little black car. And when I got off the bus, and when he got out of his little black car, he had this strange look of triumph, his tan jacket whipping around him.

* * *

Looking back and reflecting on this particular experience, I am reminded of the vulnerability that often comes with being a solo female traveler. I remember being on guard, always aware of my surroundings. I also remember putting myself in situations that were not so safe but seemed fine at the time. Like the time I went back to Paolo’s place in Nice. It was just he and I. The door was closed. He started massaging my hand and I immediately became aware of all exits. What would I do if he tried something? He wasn’t a big guy but still…Luckily, he was a total gentleman.

And then, there are moments of absolute random kindness. Like the time I was walking down a street at night in Kumasi. God, I loved that city. I was so thirsty. And just as I thought this, a man passing me offered me his bag of water. Few words were even exchanged but there we were – two strangers passing on a dark street at night in West Africa and there was only beauty between us.

I have certainly been blessed in this life and still am. The web we weave really is quite extraordinary. I was thinking yesterday that in my massage practice alone, I have literally touched people worldwide. It was such a powerful thought and realization. And we can all do just this – practice kindness every day, even in the most challenging situations. That is where the real practice lies.

With Tenderness

2008-03-22T15:58:00.000-07:00

This time last year you were still alive. I had already kissed you goodbye, ruffled your so soft ears and told you I loved you and to be a good boy. This time last year I was already at work busy with busy-ness. This day last year you died.

I can still feel the softness of your fur under my fingertips. I can still smell your rich dog smell – like the grass that you loved to leap through especially after it had rained. Rain. Grass. Wetness. Warmth. Fur. Black. Dark. Golden. Love.

Your death marked the beginning of a heart-wrenching year filled with what seemed like unbearable loss. For those who have not had the opportunity to forge a relationship with an animal, perhaps it’s hard to understand the grief that follows the death of this relationship. I will not try to explain the beauty and power of such a relationship. But I will say the love I feel for you goes as deep as an ancient spring. And this spring has irrevocably changed my life, changed how I love, how I live. In death, you reinforce my already strong belief in loving every precious moment, in not wasting a single breath, in opening our hearts even wider and deeper to the pain and joy of this brief and wondrous life.

This day marks the end of a cycle for me. I shed some tears this morning in thinking about you and our life together. Your death marked the end of a kind of innocence. In its place new seeds have sprouted and grown stronger with each day. They are seeds of wisdom, courage, strength and many heartfelt promises – to not give in to fear, to not live from a place of anger or blame, to not be a victim of life. Your death also forced me to slow down, to not work so hard. In grief, time slowed to an absolute stillness and deafening quiet. My heart may have even stopped for a moment. And it was in this stillness that I sat for a long while. Dark. Alone. Solitude. Doubt. Anger. Fear. Loss. Grief. Tears. Death.

With your death, I experienced a death of myself as well. And this happened over many months. Dying and dying again over and over in many ways and many places. Les petits morts. But from death comes life. And today, this day following closely after Spring marks new life and love. I trust again in the intelligence of this cycle of death and birth.

Coming into my house today with you so strongly on my mind and in my heart, I could have sworn I saw a fluttering of dark wings. Maybe it was your spirit come to visit, to say I love you and I am guarding you in death as I did in life. I am guarding your heart so you may be free to love and love and love again through future heartbreak and loss and death. May each time your heart break open a little more to love that much more. May it get bigger and wider and more spacious. May it expand as large as the infinite universe. And I say to you, dear furry friend, I promise to love with big bold strokes, unabashedly, unashamedly, dancing with all my might, no holding back.

Eyes wide open

2008-03-19T17:45:00.000-07:00

So, while I was standing in line at the bank today, I watched the news and they were covering the anti-war protesting in San Francisco. People were laying in the streets blocking traffic, people were being arrested and taken away in handcuffs. And I thought to myself, this should be happening all across the country right now. I felt my blood pressure go up and I started feeling angrier and angrier. Why, as a people, as Americans, have we not been more vigilant about protesting what our government has been doing for the last 7 years? And I'm not speaking just about the war. I'm talking about environmental degradation, the disintegration of our public school systems, the fact that few of us (myself included) can afford basic health care. If something serious were to happen to me right now, I would be in deep shit. Are we blinded by the entertainment industry, deafened by our own survival instincts, numb to the fact that our country, and our world, seems to be in a serious state of turmoil?

Today, I read one of Barack Obama's most recent speeches. The title said it had to do with race, which it did, but it had to do with so much more than that. He's calling for unification. For us to have faith and hope in ourselves to change the course of our individual lives and, ultimately, this country. Feeling his words reverberate throughout my body, I am reminded of the importance of each little decision we make because collectively, we have a huge impact. It's a paradox isn't it? I was talking with a friend the other night about how our individual lives are so insignificant in a way. But, as a group, we have some serious influence over the world. This is the part most of us have forgotten, I think. We are a part of something much larger than ourselves. When I say no to a plastic bag in the grocery store, I am saying no (and yes) to so many things. No to unnecessary pollution. No to lazy convenience. No to an oil and war-mongering administration that doesn't seem to give a shit about quality of life. And yes! Yes to a cleaner future. Yes to biodiversity. Yes to clean water and clean air.

Do you think I'm exaggerating the meaning of taking a plastic bag? Multiply your one plastic bag by the millions that are taken everyday by other fellow Americans. This is what I'm talking about. We all matter. What we do matters in this world because there are so damn many of us these days! And a plastic bag is just a small example. Do you know that, according to Earth:the Sequel, "the United States will have to cut emissions by 80%." If we continue at the present rate of energy usage, "the scientific consensus is that inaction will change the earth within a few decades into a place unlike any ever inhabited by humans. Business as usual will open the door to catastrophe: flooding and the dislocation of millions of people in South Asia's vast deltas; chronic drought and mass malnourishment in Africa; wildfires, deadly heat waves, and coastal destruction in the United States; the extinction of half the world's living species."

Is this the kind of world you want to live in? It'd be easy for us to blame this very possible scenario on our fucked up government but, quite honestly, what we really need to do, in my opinion, is to simply look at ourselves and our own personal lives. How is George W. a reflection of myself and my own carelessness? He is merely an example of human thoughtlessness of which we are all guilty to some degree.

An example: a friend of mine recently shared with me that her mom is working on a new home. "It's not even a house," my friend said. It's massive and it's just for herself and her husband. Is this really necessary? Why the ostentatiousness? The excess? And you know what I think it is? So many of us are living in spiritual and emotional poverty. We have lost our connection to our tribe. We don't dance and sing around the fire anymore. We don't braid one another's hair or go hunting together. And I'm not saying we should go back to these ways but we need to find the equivalent to this. It's not enough to work day after day and sit in front of the television and do the same thing the next day and the day after that. This kind of monotony breeds the kind of consumerism that seems to run rampant in America now. The idea is that a new gadget will surely alleviate the deathly boredom of suburban existence. But it doesn't, does it? It's just more crap.

So what does it take to live an extraordinary, passionate life? To make very moment count? I invite us to think about this. I think part of it is not letting fear govern our decisions. We must not be afraid to leave our comfort zones. We must connect with one another and not through some silly electronic gadget. Face-to-face with eye and soul contact. In the grocery store. In the park. While shopping. We need to challenge one another to live more passionately and more creatively. This weekend, I hope to sit around a fire with some close friends and to sing some songs and to tell some stories. If we all felt nourished, deeply nourished, maybe we wouldn't be such parasites to the planet.

Woven

2008-03-12T15:24:00.000-07:00

my eyes so tired
but my heart content
with you
the universe
the vast umbrella of stars
the half-lit moon
drunken on itself

my life
like a web
reaching
repairing
stretching
inviting
new and wondrous
strands of thought
tastes
experiences

could it be so simple
as saying yes to what we want
no to what we don't want?
if so,
may the stars bathe me in sweetness tonight
while the fire in my heart warms my soul
and your touch quenchs
a longtime thirst

Yes to you a thousand times
to life
to breath
to solace
to warmth
to new beginnings

This one life

2008-03-10T13:15:00.000-07:00

It's a bright and sunny day here in Hawaii. I woke up a little bit ago and have been reflecting on some things. One thing I've been thinking about a lot lately is work. Two months ago, I consolidated my schedule so I would be on my land more and have been working only 3 days a week, sometimes 4. What's interesting are the feelings that have been coming up regarding this. Part of me feels guilty - like I should be working more. I've always worked a lot and have gone through brief periods of working less but this is the longest I've gone only working half a week. And, of course, there's another part of me that feels great and liberated! I have so much more time to myself to invest in creative projects and adventure. People always say try things on when young because there may not be another chance. I want to debunk this statement and fully integrate this newfound feeling of freedom into my hopefully long life. I know feelings don't last forever but maybe insights can. And what I'm learning is that quality of life is most important, however, quality of life is affected by how much we work and earn since, without some money, we are somewhat limited in what we are able to do. Although, even this idea has been debunked by various people.

In an earlier entry, I talked a little about Poppa Neutrino. I doubt he has a savings account of any kind or a 401k. And yet, he lives a passionate, creative life. He is also okay lugging around a "portable home" made of scrap wood. I can't say that resonates with me but the point I'm trying to make is how important it is to come to some kind of realization about what it means for each of us to live a creative, passionate life. There's so many books these days on this subject. It's ironic to me in a way because part of living passionately is to tap into our own creative juices. Do we really need to be told how to do this? Isn't part of the problem that we've all been so programmed from an early age how to be? So, wouldn't the real process be one of de-programming? That's the way I see it. We have to clear away the clutter. Who are the voices that hold us back? Are they our parents? Teachers? The voices have come to sound like our own but they're not.

In my life now, I am learning to be more discerning about who I share my hopes and dreams with. Some people are so good at dashing them. And, like freshly germinated seeds, they're so fragile in their new life and could die just as easily as they could live. So, I hold back but not with myself or, at least this is what I'm working on. I still have very strong voices of self-doubt that love to question my every maneuver in life. And while magic surrounds us all the while, we sometimes aren't able to see it through the many filters with which we've been programmed. And so that's what I mean about clearing away the clutter. Sometimes we have to disregard what we've been told about ourselves. I've always been told that I'm so sweet and good. Not bad qualities but this holds me back. Maybe I don't want to be sweet and good. Maybe I want to be sexy or sweaty or bold or feisty or stubborn or reckless or rebellious or creative or whatever! I want to be everything and sometimes nothing. I want to experience life in its many forms and not hold myself back because of ideas I may have about myself that were imposed on me at a very early age. This had nothing to do with me as an individual but had everything to do with the people doing the imposing. Unfortunately, as a child, we don't know any of this so we take it all in. But, at some point, we have to throw it all up and let it go. But it's a long, sometimes painful, process.

Where am I going with all of this? When it comes to the guilty feelings I mentioned earlier about work, I'm realizing that working to understand myself is just as important, if not more important, as it is to work for money. It's equally purposeful. I guess that's where I am now. I'm getting to know myself more fully in this time. Taking pause to tune in and discover what I truly want to do. Because it's about the quality of this one life I have. How do I want to spend it? How do I want to spend each moment of every day? Even when I'm doing something I don't necessarily want to do (like taxes!) how can I reroute my thinking so that it doesn't feel like torture?

Now the sun is out and has been for weeks. It's time to do some watering. Watering of the soil. Watering of the soul. It's all the same, really.

LoVE, lOvE, LOve

2008-03-02T11:23:00.000-08:00

Well, hello. I haven't written in some time and it's already the 2nd day of March! Happy March! My motto for March is work less, play more. (Though, work enough to save money to go to Italy :)

I woke this morning to a beautiful and already HOT day. I also awoke to the sound of a bird fluttering its wings. This is fairly usual. The birds like to hang out and flap their wings on my roof, however, this flapping sounded a little bit louder and more frantic than usual. Turns out a bird had somehow managed to get into my house. (Note: this house is built home-made style by my own two hands and hands of others, namely my friend, David. God bless you, wherever you are today!) And so, being a homemade house, there are holes and open areas and places where things don't meet exactly right. But there's no other house like it - I tell you that!)

Anyway, getting back to the bird. It was flying this way and that, around my bed, crashing into my windows. (I have lots of big clear windows.) Poor thing. I opened up everything - doors, windows and it must have somehow found its way out after hitting its poor beak numerous times.

Now, the clouds seem to be rolling in. The horizon is gray and the air is much cooler, gratefully. We desperately need rain and I would do a rain dance if I knew how. But enough about the weather!

What I really want to share is the experience I had last night, late into the glorious star studded blackness. A couple days ago, I received an invitation to attend a ceremony called "Essensual touch." Without going into detail now, I will just say that I initially felt very resistant. My friend needed an R.S.V.P. and so I said I would go. That locked me in because a new and important practice for me is doing what I say I am going to do. As the time approached, however, I got more and more excited. I had no idea what to expect, no idea who was going to be there (except for the friends organizing the meeting) or who I was going to meet. But I knew the night would be magical.

We arrived one-by-one, in pairs, in triads. Each person was greeted by two welcomers. One held a bowl of salt water and the other a bowl of fresh rosemary. One asked to "draw up into your mind the worst self-judgment you have of yourself." As that thought registered, the other person dipped rosemary into the water and as she sprinkled it around the newcomer, she asked that this judgment be released. This set the tone for the evening.

And what an evening - we all gathered in a large white room. The floors were covered in soft padding and bedding with many fluffy pillows. We gathered into a circle and connected. We were led through various exercises to attune ourselves to ourselves and to connect with one another. After about an hour of facilitated movement and exercises, the space was opened up to freeform massage and touch. (This was the part I felt most anxious about.) But, to my wonderful surprise and delight, it was wonderful. I partnered with a lovely man and he massaged my neck, shoulders and back (which I desperately needed) and I worked on him, rubbing away soreness, stiffness and connecting all the while. My hands were worked on, I was tickled lightly, I hugged and cuddled, all with different people at different times. It was spontaneous, precious, human contact that was wholesome, nourishing, yummy wonderfulness.

And what I'm thinking now (as rain spatters on me from my open window) is how needed nights like this are in the world today. We all need to deeply connect with one another but not necessarily at a sexual level. With so much fear and anxiety about the future and the present, connecting with one another at such a soulful place and with such a physical presence somehow makes everything okay. Just to be held, to be cuddled and touched makes all the difference. I touch people everyday in my profession but this night felt different. We were all there with the intention that we were responsible for ourselves in what we gave and what we received. We were there with open hearts and open minds, giving and receiving.

I carry this feeling with me and will hold it throughout the day. It is a feeling and a knowing that we are all so precious and all so full of love. We just sometimes get blocked. And another thought. I carry many judgements, as most of us do. I judge myself, I judge people and situations. I am realizing, however that though I may not be able nor need to stop these judgments, I don't need to act on them. That is a new practice of mine. To have the judgement, to acknowledge it but to not let it stop me from living a full open-hearted life.

To all of you, much love. It's time to dance!

Sucker punched by love

2008-02-14T10:30:00.000-08:00

Dedicated to Z, wherever you are, whatever you're doing...

I carry your heart with me (i carry it in

my heart) i am never without it (anywhere

i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear

no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want

no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

-e.e. cummings

So, today is Valentine's Day. (It's also Mimi's birthday - Happy Birthday!) And last night, grief dragged me from the dance floor and got me in a half nelson, leaving me begging on my knees for mercy. It's always amazing to me how this happens. I'm going along fine and then all of a sudden, good ole heartsick, lovesick grief takes his last inhale of a cigarette, throws it down, smashes it with his foot and comes roaring after me. Doesn't he have better things to do? Humor aside, last night was a rough one. Makes me wonder what kind of sick thing love is to twist us all up, wring us out, leave us panting on the floor. It's so good when it's good and so bad when it's bad and gone.

The worst part of it is the thinking that love may never happen again. That was it, last call, going, going, gone... It only happens to other people. Other people get married, have kids, buy a house together, go on exotic vacations. Not me, nope. Not yet, anyway. Am I too strong? Too stubborn? Too uncompromising? Too compromising? Too weak? Too what?! I know I'm asking the wrong questions here. I know there's also no right questions. Life just putters along and we grab hold when we can and let go when we need to. Still, I didn't want to let go of this one. I don't want to let go of this one. So maybe I won't, for now. I'll just hang on until my heart says, "okay, no more." I'll love across miles, across ocean, across sky and over many time zones. I'll speak to you in my mind, from my heart and only there.

Happy Valentine's Day to all.

Cuts like a machete

2008-02-13T13:55:00.000-08:00

I have a confession and an apology to make.

Apology first:
I'm sorry for the lack of pictures! I can't seem to upload them onto my site. I was just reading a friend's blog where he wrote that a blog without pictures is a half-assed blog indeed. And I agree! I want to ameliorate the problem but, alas, my hands are tied. Another complication is that I have yet to invest in a digital camera. So, for the time being, my friends, may words be enough.

Confession:
I am terrible at sending birthday cards. My mom happened to bring this to my attention today. My point was that I call - isn't that enough? It's a bunch of consumeristic, hallmark crap anyway isn't it? I do believe in honoring someone on their birthday. I know I like getting cards. But I also prefer handmade things or a phone call or whatever kind of acknowledgement someone wants to give me. So, enough said about that.

Right now, outside of my office, someone has been using a leaf-blower for God knows how fucking long. These are one of the most absurd inventions ever made. They're noisy, stupid, wasteful and, for what? To move some leaves around! I must go on a rant about this because there are some things that are intolerable and this is one of them. My other rant is plastic bags. I have a friend staying with me now, God love him, but for the life of me, I don't understand why whenever he gets food of some sort, he comes back with it in a plastic bag. If he were a nimwit of some sort, I would understand, but he's not. And it's something we've talked about. If there's one small thing that people can do to make one iota of a difference, it's refusing to take a plastic bag. You know what I think the problem is? We get caught up so much in the big, huge problems that we face that we forget about all of the little things that we can do that add up to big change. This friend of mine was an Environmental Studies major in college so he's aware of all the big ideas and theories and blah, blah, blah, but when it comes time to put that theory into practice, there's some kind of disconnect.

I've been reading this Joseph Campbell book and last night I read a passage where he states that people would rather go to a lecture about heaven than go to heaven themselves. I really think he's got a good point. Most people would rather (and do!) sit at home, lounging on their comfortable couch while living their lives vicariously through some stupid reality show than living their own life marvelously. I want to be intoxicated by my own life. But it's easier, in a way isn't it, to sit back and stay clean, to not dirty ourselves with the disappointments, the challenges, the decision-making. Life is fucking hard sometimes. We get our hearts broken, our feet stepped on, people telling us, "No, you can't do that!" But screw 'em. Do it anyway. Find a way. Make a way. Get out your machete and take down those weeds that block the path. I find this is my greatest goal this year: to live a life of bliss and magic. I'll still pay my bills, and pay the fucking IRS, and get my car fixed but I have made a promise to be extraordinary this year, to move in new ways and think in new ways, to cut out the bullshit and get to it already.

By God, I will get some pictures on here!

Dancing like mad

2008-02-12T16:38:00.000-08:00

I've been feeling very content lately - ever since my last posting, really. I have discovered, or maybe rediscovered, the incredible healing that comes with dance, especially when it's a freeform, let loose, anything goes kind of dancing. This past sunday, I went to another ecstatic dance session and really let go. The music was pumping and the air was electric. At one point while jumping and swaying my hips and kicking my legs and dancing with the people around me, I smiled and the smile came from deep within my heart. I felt truly free and happy and connected to everyone around me. It felt so good to just let go and give my body over to the music that pulsated throughout the room. And what was so great was that everyone else was doing a similar thing. We were all there in that big room with our shoes off, dancing like mad!

I've been thinking a lot lately that the beauty of being an adult is that we can do all the things we wanted to do as kids but weren't able to do for some reason or another. Dance has always been one of these desires for me. And it's not as if I have a desire to be a professional dancer or anything like that. It's more that I feel so alive and vibrant when I'm dancing. It's an essential form of self-expression for me. Everything about it is exciting - the movement, the music, the sweat and blisters, the people around me. It's electric! Just thinking about it makes me yearn for the next time I can let go and dance (which, fortunately, is tomorrow night!)

I am devoting this year to myself. I am planning on doing all those things that I've been wanting to do for a long time but keep putting off. And if I don't do them this year, I am at least planning for them. Here's one of the things on this list: returning to Italy for a dance workshop and also to officially learn Italian.

So, what's on your list?

A Brief Encounter with Ecstasy

2008-01-21T16:25:00.000-08:00

20Jan08

Today I went dancing. In a sweaty whirlwind, I jumped and jived, swung my arms and spun, hurling myself this way and that. There is a place down the road where every Sunday, people gather at “ecstatic dance.” There is no speaking, only movement and music.

I needed to get out of my head and to just move. Even while moving, I caught myself thinking about how I looked. Or maybe there was someone across the room that I wanted to tangle with but was too shy and briefly berated myself for this shortcoming. Nevertheless, the music pumped on and I found myself, for the most part, completely wrapped up in sound. It felt beyond good to reconnect with a part of myself that has been calling for my attention. It’s the more animalistic part, the sensual, artistic, wild part. I recently read my horoscope and felt that it was particularly poignant. I’m not one to read horoscopes for any reason other than inspiration. This one went:

“A few months ago I went to a costume party on the Cruise Ship Ecstatic, which was docked in San Francisco Bay. The theme was ‘The Ecstatic Muse: What is the future of your own turn-on?’ I recommend you make that your meditation in the coming weeks, Libra. According to my analysis of the astrological omens, you’re overdue for a rigorous inventory of your approach to creating rapture, bliss and joy. If in the course of your investigations you find you’ve been neglecting this essential aspect of your physical and mental health, take dramatic steps to upgrade your zeal. It’s time to get more aggressive about feeling excited.”

May this message speak to anyone who feels they need a good dose of ecstasy in their lives in whatever form. For me, I crave closeness with kindred spirits. Today was a good beginning. I reconnected with some people who I haven’t seen in awhile and who I really like. More than that, I reconnected with a very soulful part of myself. I hope to continue nurturing this relationship. It’s one that’s gone untended for a long while now – too long. I intend to be my own lover now since I’m in need of rediscovering myself and all those hidden passages that have grown over with weeds. It’s time to start some metaphorical gardens.

Living ecstatically, I have much to say on the subject. To be pursued next time.

The Green-ness of things

2008-01-21T16:24:00.000-08:00

19Jan08

Today, Joe will dig holes and I will fill those holes with soil in preparation for tree planting. This is an ongoing project as we have many holes to dig and fill.

There’s something magical about planting something and watching it grow. Perhaps it’s the witnessing of life that is so awe-inspiring. Or maybe it’s because we’ve had some role in this perpetuation of life. Or maybe it’s just the satisfaction that comes after a long day of blood, sweat and tears. In any case, no matter how many self-doubts and questions I may have at the start of a good work day, once I tend to the soil, all doubts seem to fade into the background.

Yesterday we visited Volcanoes National Park and hiked down into what was once a crater brimming with lava. The fresh lava has long since dried up and blackened over but still, plumes of steam erupt from the many cracks and fissures. We sat for awhile by one of the bigger plumes of steam and had quite a steam bath. I can’t help but compare the steam with the breath of some wild animal. The way it ebbs and flows from the fissures and the slightly musky aroma makes me wonder if there isn’t some giant dragon curled deep within the earth sleeping soundly and breathing heavily, bathing us all in its heady breath.

Before heading to the park yesterday, we stopped at a place which was once known as Steam Vent Inn, a rather innocuous name. It has since been sold and bought by someone else who has given it an absurdly long name which I care not to remember. In a recent local newspaper, this “spa” was written up as having natural warm ponds and steam rooms, all heated by geothermal activity. Sounded too interesting to pass up. At the door of the main house, we were greeted by a woman who then led us to the owner. He had a very pleasant face, thick eyebrows and a kind smile. We got talking and it turns out that his place is home to a ministry of sorts. Without going into too much detail over the exact content of his ministry, I felt my heart sink the more he spoke. This man had a beautiful place, no doubt, and put quite a bit of work into making it wonderful. But speaking with him reminded me of how much we all live in our own fantasy worlds, some more than others. He spoke of prophecy from the bible and how he is planning on building a temple in honor of King David and that by fulfilling this prophecy, the world will be set straight. He talked of water and nature and seeing fetuses and umbilical cords in the water. And that, wow, space is not a void after all but filled with water. I found myself wondering why it is that people such as himself find it so necessary to make up such elaborate stories rather than enjoying nature as it is? Nature, itself, is enough, isn’t it? Nature is filled with magic and wonder and its own stories. There’s no need for elaboration.

I left feeling sad. Maybe I was being too self-righteous. Maybe he wasn’t missing the point, as I saw it. But I don’t think so. It’s as if this life and these moments aren’t enough for some of us. We have to make up these grand stories about ourselves and our purpose here on this planet. I do it too. We all do it in some way or another. But nature reminds us all the time that while we are intimately connected to everything, our individual lives really don’t matter all that much in the end. This is not a morbid thought, in my mind. If anything, this thought frees us from our ego-driven realities and allows us to really explore and wonder as well as wander – to live a life filled with insight. Or maybe to live a life of absurdity since the world is so chaotic anyway. While walking along a forest path in the park, Joe and I were stopped by fellow visitors and they asked us to take their picture with the steam vents in the background. Later, I mused, “Wouldn’t it have been funny if we had asked them if they would take a picture of us with their camera?” Aren’t we part of the backdrop as well? To do something just because it’s absurdly funny is somehow so liberating. It shakes things up – reorganizes the way we think and the way we do things. Maybe life shouldn’t be so ordered. Maybe that’s how we get stuck. We follow the same routine day after day – the same route to work, the same lunchtime meal, the same people, everything the same.

Routine is comfortable, I admit it. I find comfort in knowing what to expect. Nevertheless, I am finding more and more that too much comfort equals a kind of death. Stagnation sets in. I want to be more like the hot breath of the earth, ebbing and flowing, moving when I want, pooling when something entices me. It’s to nature I look when I need help since nature is neutral and dances round and round with the cycle of life and death. It doesn’t care. It does its thing and knows what it is and why its here. The humpback whales know when it’s time to leave Alaska and make their way to these islands to give birth. Somehow we’ve snuck out the back door and taken ourselves out of this intelligent loop. I’d like to somehow find my way back to this knowing.

Insight

2008-01-21T16:21:00.000-08:00

Krishnamurti once said, “…a mind that has insight and acts from that without drawing a conclusion is in the movement of continuous, constant insight…this constant insight without a formula, a conclusion that puts an end to that insight, is creative action…” Imagine living from a place of constant insight and creative action, never concluding anything and therefore, never setting limitations on one’s life. Sounds impossible, right? How do we live without making a conclusion about anything? We are constantly making conclusions about things. “I am making this much money, therefore, I am able to do this…” End of the sentence. Period. No further thought required. We base our lives on conclusions about ourselves and those around us. But, imagine for a moment if we stopped doing this. What would that even look like? What is a life filled with creative action based on endless insight?

Thought is not the same as insight. Insight is like breath: inspiring, clear, fluid, limitless and timeless. Thought has ramifications and goes round and around yet goes nowhere sometimes. “I’m stuck in my head.” But insight is like a glimmer of gold, a sudden ray of clarity from which the potential of new life may spring up. It is fresh and green, like the fragile unfurling of a new fern. It can be so easily lost or trampled down amongst the myriad of thought. Or it can simply not be taken seriously.

How do we make the transition from thought to pure insight? I leave you this question since I have not yet answered it myself…

I don't want to grow up

2008-01-17T16:31:00.000-08:00

It's an overcast day here on the Big Island, the kind that's got me thinking about growing up for some reason. I decided long ago that I don't want to officially grow up though I know that some growing up is necessary. Today, I felt way too grown up because today I dealt with that big, bad entity otherwise known as the IRS. Filling out and poring over form after stupid redundant form made me wonder many things.

First and foremost, I wonder how to navigate through the mundaneness of life without losing our sense of magic. Life is magical, no doubt. But it's also quite ordinary. And today, well, was very ordinary and filled with downright drudgery. Even now, as I write, my head feels filled with the fog that comes with thinking too much. Thinking, thinking, I'm always thinking. I'm obsessed lately with the fact that I'm single and not enjoying it one bit. I thought I would. I really did. But I'm not. I don't like waking up and being the only one in bed. I find myself singing the lines of "Nothing Compares." "Since you've been gone I can do whatever I want...I can put my arms around every boy I see....They only remind me of you." And it's all true in a way. Life doesn't seem to matter so much when there's no one there to share it, to share just in the mundaneness of it all. When I am with someone, the mundaneness somehow doesn't seem so bad. But being single, it turns to mere drudgery. And it doesn't matter that I can do whatever I want since without someone I love to consult with, I can't seem to come to a decision about anything.

And so, my head swims with way too much thinking of late. The same old questions, the same tired worn-out responses. What does it take to re-wire our brains so that we can create new pathways of thought? I want to make a new map, I want to trek out into new territory, someplace fresh and that smells green. And I want to do it with someone. I don't think we're meant to be alone in this life. I think we're meant to be tribal. We're meant to snuggle in big groups and to wrap ourselves around one another when life is just too damn tough.

I remember hearing once that when you leave home, you can never go back. This feels more true to me now than ever. The problem is that the yearning for home never goes away. For me, it only increases with the passing of each year. The problem is that while home for me now is more of a metaphor, I still long for the physical place. In my mind, I imagine a place where everyone I love is gathered. Unfortunately, in such a fragmented world, we only have fragmented tribes. Friends and family are scattered across the globe. I am in the middle of a damn ocean, separated by thousands of miles of water from people I love.

How do I close the gap? On this cloudy, leaf-blown day, I wonder how to find home if it is, indeed, a metaphor. Maybe I hope to find it in one person. I have felt it in the past, wrapped up safe in a lover's arms. The feeling never lasts long enough and the relationships have ended.

Now, I feel like a big toad in a big puddle, sitting like a big lump. Or a car with a flat tire stuck in a muddy rut in the rain, or a sailboat with ripped sails sitting in the doldrums. I have the ability to move but I can't. And time just keeps pressing on. I admit it. I'm stuck. There, I said it. "Just like a rolling stone...no direction home..."

A Poem

2008-01-10T13:45:00.000-08:00

On this day
An adventure is born
From the depths
You could say
It breathes in the night
And when you are asleep
It breathes you, in fact
From those recesses of your being
You try to forget
It rages through your belly
Like a wildfire
In a desert storm

This morning
There was a dead bird at my window
Its chirping sibling was close by
And the mother too
The one pushed from the nest perhaps
So the other could live
We all must leave something behind in this world
A little piece of ourselves here and there
The question is what to do
With the remains

Is it fate or our own hands
That guides us through the night?
I used to believe in the mystery
Seems my hands are so small
As beautiful as they are
But I am old now
The spark lies shallowly buried
Under the soot and ash
Of lost love
It will take all the breath in my body
And more
To clear away
The debris
I am counting
On something bigger now
To lead me through
These hours of doubt
It is the intersection of heaven and earth
That I seek

On this journey,
Though many have traveled the path
I am alone

And the phoenix rises...

2008-01-10T12:31:00.000-08:00

This is my very first blog posting. Sharing my writing is something I've wanted to do for a long time. There seems to be no better time than the beginnings of a new year to do just that...begin.

I've been thinking a lot about beginnings lately and how they are so connected to endings, deaths, loss. At the tail end of all of these things is new life. I'm thinking for some reason now about the dendrites of neurons and how they look so much like roots. It is in the dendrites where magic happens - information dances electrically from one neuron to another through these dendritic passages. This must happen millions of times over throughout the day. We are constantly given new information to process. What if, like actual roots, we could be nourished by this information, washed clean each time, and with that, we would re-invent ourselves over and over again?

I'm not sure where I'm going with all of this. Maybe I don't need to go anywhere with any of it. Maybe it's for you to think about, mull over, swish around in your mouth, tasting the sweetness of new thought. Pondering the possibilities of this life...

And what about the question of freedom? I've been thinking about that a lot lately too. What does it mean exactly to be free? Recently, I watched a movie called "Random Lunacy." It's about a man who calls himself Poppa Neutrino and his family. He's decided that the 9-5 life isn't for him so he travels with his family and plays music, joins a circus, builds a raft from trash and sails it across the Atlantic Ocean. He is vigilant about being free. His life is one grand adventure. He shirks the ordinary and embraces extremism. It got me thinking about my own life and what freedom looks like for me. What does it look like for you? What's the taste, sound and feel?

I'm a little concerned these days that people aren't thinking enough about personal freedom. And I'm not talking about the freedom to buy, to consume, to ravage everything in our path which humans seem to have gotten a little too good at. I'm talking about freedom of the mind and freedom of the body, though I don't think the two are as separate as we think. I think they are one and the same, really. But that's a different conversation.

I was walking to my studio office and saw a Hummer in the parking lot. I wanted to kick it and yell at the person for being such a moron and driving something that, in my mind, epitomizes human stupidity. It's amazing that one car could elicit so much hatred in my heart. Freedom seems to have gotten warped, perverted. Car companies advertise freedom as being able to drive this monstrosity across wild lands, taking it wherever one's little heart desires. But at what cost? And isn't the cost greater than the benefit? It's as if it's not until we all have a pile of shit sitting in our own living rooms that we will actually slap our hands to our foreheads and declare, "Wow, we're really making a mess of things! Maybe we should reconsider our ways..."

And what about me? I'm talking a lot about other people, I know. I tend to do that sometimes. I'd like to live a little more like Poppa Neutrino. I like his idea that we can't possess anything. Nothing is really "ours." And yet, we seem to really like the idea of ownership. I, myself, "own" some land and a little cabin and some clothes and various other things. I like to think it's all mine for keeps until I decide otherwise. But, really, that's not the case. I did own two dogs. They're both dead. Things die and fall away. Death is mostly beyond our control. Maybe we can prolong it but we can't stop it. Relationships die too, even if we struggle over and over in endless ways to breathe life into them. I tried that too. It didn't work. "My lover is gone now..." That must be some sad song somewhere. Ella, maybe?

And so, after life comes death comes life again. Round and round, the story goes...what is your story?