But... I Have Built-In Bookshelves!

A few days after my enlightened decision to become homeless, to let go of my apartment and roam Paris and the States for an undetermined amount of time, pragmatism reared its timid head. I was getting ready to go to bed. I sat on my bed and looked at my built-in bookshelves on the opposite wall. Wow. I've really given up my apartment. July 27th I will be officially homeless. But I like living here for the most part, neighbor proximity and noise aside. My studio is in a great neighborhood and I love the layout, including these built-in bookshelves which I have neatly and thoughtfully arranged my books on. I love laying here in my bed, looking at my books.

This initial and premature nostalgia for my built-in bookshelves gave way to further precipitate wistfulness, with the momentum of a downhill train. I have granite countertops in my kitchen, for God's sake! Granite! Isn't my kitchen one of the first things people comment upon when they see my apartment? How they marvel over the relatively ample size (given that it is a studio), the granite and the stainless steel appliances?! Am I not told repeatedly how fortunate I am to have such amenities in an apartment? I have a lovely window next to my dining table and a a rear door! How lovely to have a window in the kitchen, AND a rear door!

And the closet?! Haven't I always wanted such a closet? It reminds me a bit of Carrie's closet on "Sex and the City," but a bit smaller and with far less exciting contents. But it is a walk-through closet, leading to the the charming little bathroom with full sized tub and hexagon tiles! The bathroom where I've had such wonderful "revelations" standing before the adorable pedestal sink! How could I possibly consent to leave all of this?! And to leave it for what? No security, no comfort to return to after a long day, no place to watch my wonderful flat screen LCD HDTV? Really, I'm choosing such? Freely?!

This sudden and rather immense ruefulness did not last long, fortunately. I found myself laughing out loud at the absurdity of such feelings. These are things after all! Would I really relinquish my dreams of traveling, exploring, living... for built-in bookshelves?! And they aren't even real wood! They are particle board with adjustable shelves and not even really built into the wall. They house a hideaway bed that I don't even use (after all, how then would I be able to gaze at my books if I'm laying behind them?). Do I really think that I will never have another "home" that could have such things? Ridiculous.

And I've been here before. When I was married, my husband and I had an amazing house built, a house with the most charming little den for me to write in. This den had French doors, real built-in wood bookshelves and plush Berber carpet. Did those built-ins bring me any lasting happiness? Clearly not. And they did absolutely nothing to save our marriage, either.

This return to sanity was further verified at 130am, a few hours after the wistfulness over the built-ins, when my new neighbor sharing the very wall of the built-ins cranked her stereo on at an alarming volume. It was a Monday. I awoke abruptly and with what easily could have been perceived by another (if only there were another present) as a somewhat psychotic smile spreading on my face, I muttered out loud, "I am going to move." Although this disturbance was precisely that, it felt like a wonderful indication that I was doing the right thing and I was actually glad for it. I reached over to my bedside and grabbed Nietzsche's "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" and threw it across to the opposite wall. It seemed the appropriate thing to do. To really substantiate my decision to choose homelessness over built-in bookshelves, the next "morning" at exactly the same time, 130am, the music returned. This time I pounded against the wall with the thick binding edge of my not-so "Concise French Dictionary." The point was made and the music ceased. My conviction about homelessness strengthened.

What an insular notion... to cling to my little apartment interior and these things. I've always loved cozy little spaces and I've enjoyed my present home. I appreciate the comfort and fulfillment of a home with four walls and prominent traces of our presence in nearby books, framed photos, treasures and trinkets. But this will only be one of many homes for me. And I smile so widely when I think of the real bookshelves I might build in my own house one day. A quaint house on enough land so as to provide room for a Labrador or two to roam comfortably and without having to hear my neighbors having sex or repeatedly fighting and making up. I'm not beyond appreciating the need for home. I know I will yearn for a home while on the road. But interestingly, I just feel an intense desire to know that longing for home. I think that pain of being "homeless" makes the experience of traveling all the more gratifying. Home really is where the heart is and that can be anywhere. I need to know this feeling more deeply.

My current "backyard" is a landscaped alleyway facing another row of brick condo apartments like mine. The woman who lives directly behind me comes out to chat every now and then. She is in her 40s, single with 2 cats and heavy with regret. Her voice betrays her sadness for a life not fully lived. She talks of the two new armchairs she recently bought, how the cats have each staked out their respective chairs, and how she must work extra to pay for the chairs. She sighs and takes a sip from the can of diet Pepsi she holds. She tells me repeatedly how lucky I am to be able to go to Paris. How she wishes she could do something like that. I find it painfully difficult to talk with her at all because I know that if I cling to these built-in bookshelves, I might hold that same sad tone one day, right here in this very apartment with the granite countertops.

So, I trade my current "backyard" and these ordinary built-in bookshelves for a vast backyard, glorious, and for now.... wonderfully unknown:


*Photo, aptly titled, "Foggy Road Less Traveled," from here.

Divine Discontent

The storm of my discontent finally broke. It was an unusually warm morning here in Portland last Saturday. I awoke at 630am, immediately showered and waited for my sister to arrive. A highly atypical outing for us, we were driving up to Vancouver to see Johnathan and Andy Hillstrand, co-captains of the F/V Time Bandit, featured on Discovery Channel's "Deadliest Catch." As my earlier post about "Deadliest Catch" details, I love this show to a peculiar degree. I find that I could endlessly write about what draws me towards the show: the Hero's Journey, the authenticity of these men and their intense connection with nature, the sea and how it is the one thing I both fear and revere the most, my immense attraction to various aspects of masculinity, memories of the boyfriend who turned me onto the show, and so much more.

When I stumbled upon news that the Hillstrands would be doing a book signing in Vancouver, I knew I had to go, especially after posting about my love of the show earlier this month. So, I enlisted my sister N to join me, who I turned onto the show a few months ago and who has become an equally avid fan since. We fervently discuss who our favorite captains and deckhands are and why we feel such an intense connection with the show. So, the book signing was a no-brainer for us.

We arrived early and purchased our books and stood in line outside, where the Hillstrands would be signing books under an awning. It was a very casual setting, at the Clark County Skills Center. There was a teenage punk/alternative band playing, a dunk tank, a handful of classic cars being featured, and booths set up with information on the Center and its educational offerings. We stood in the unusually hot 10am sun, looking through the photos in the Hillstrands' book, Time Bandit, and eagerly agreed to indulge in hot dogs afterwards.

There was something instantly magical about this day but I had no clear notion when I awoke that this would be the morning of absolute enlightenment... that all my dreams, my hopes of being alive and realizing myself as a writer... would be illuminated, revealing the most lucid direction I am to take with my life. I had no idea that all the symbols, internal and external struggles, and seemingly unrelated experiences and thoughts, would come to such fruition.

*****************************************************************************

The discontent had been mounting, to a deafening degree. I've stood at my crossroads and with a disturbing amount of patience, I have waited. There was no wind about me. No stirring. Just the density of my restlessness. Motionless. Soundless. Absolutely still. I strained my soul repeatedly, trying to glean some indication of which direction I should take. Come on soul, you should know. Nothing. The exigency within me did not subside. I knew I had to go. But where? Could I really be satisfied with randomly choosing just one direction? And while each direction looked equally appealing (and vague), my ridiculously indecisive nature would not allow me to step toward any one of them. So, I waited some more.

My mind started turning against me. Why am I discontent? Why can't I be adventurous and inspired where I am now? I'm going to Paris for the month of July, after all. I'll come home and the writing will be here and more will reveal itself. Maybe I'm just so close to realizing that dream that I'm feeling antsy. No. That isn't it and false attempts to convince myself never work. Travel specials on PBS kept taunting me. I was equally fascinated with each and every one of them. The two hour special on the Adirondacks captivated me wholly, as did the Equitrekking episodes in Vermont and then the South and then Wyoming. That damn Rick Steves and his back doors to Europe! My head was spinning.

I felt the same spinning sensation in reading all of your amazing blogs on moving to France. My horse dream haunted me and I was literally feeling twitchy. The wise voice of Joseph Campbell lingered, like a small bird swinging on its perch in a birdcage with no bottom. This bird (Campbell) repeatedly whispering, you can't have the Hero's Journey in your own backyard, you fool. I highly doubt Campbell would call me a fool but I like a bird with a little provocation. I need it.

The cloud cover of discontent started pressing down upon me more rapidly. It became oppressive. My mind tried to present substitute fantasies - I would hear John Mayer on my iPod and fantasize about us falling in puppy dog love, him writing a song about me and serenading me on the porch of our remote countryside home. After seeing "Lars and the Real Girl" and loving it, I watched "The Notebook" five times in one very hormonal weekend and fantasized that Ryan Gosling and I might meet in a little coffee shop down in the South, trading playful glances. I know... you just threw up in your mouth, didn't you? Me too. Yep, I know this pattern all too well... trying to convince myself that falling in love will quench my yearnings. It is a substitute fantasy that my mind always veers to when I'm discontent. But I know better, in my heart at least. Kind of backwards, isn't it? My heart knowing better than my head. Well, it does. It is an escapist fantasy - the idea of a relationship being enough to sustain me. And that substitute fantasy never lasts, nor do the substitute relationships.

This immense discontent has lasted over two months. No doubt it has resided within me for quite some time (a lifetime?) but it has become unbearable in the past two months. Previous bouts of discontent throughout my life have encouraged me to make changes, but the changes were always a band-aid, a temporary "fix" to keep me going a little while longer. These band-aids never required much from me, maybe a slight leap of faith here and there but no ultimate vulnerability. I tell myself that I cannot keep doing this temporary fix bullshit. I know myself better than ever now at age 31. There is a price to that consciousness. And when you heed that consciousness diligently, as I have for many years now, it never lets up on you until you actually live the life you are supposed to.

The past two months in particular have truly been introspective hell, standing in the middle of my crossroads and reaching the exasperated point in which I yearned for, and then tried with great force, to conjure up a massive train (let's call it the Fucking Choo-Choo to Bliss Express) to barrel me down in this damned crossroads. I felt like I was hoarsely screaming to the universe, "here I am! Is all this consciousness for naught?! I don't want to end up spending my life in this bell jar, suffocating myself with thoughts and dreams unrealized!"

Apparently, the universe listens. The train came, the bell jar lifted. But the train was no train. It was a butterfly, a blackbird, vertical shadows dancing upon me on a bridge. Yes, it was on the Columbia River Interstate Bridge that it all lifted, the divine discontent finally gave way completely, and my soul expanded over the river... it expanded over the largest river flowing into the Pacific from North America. The symbolism only presented itself later. I was in the moment and I've never felt more alive.

*****************************************************************************

Last night I sat at the kitchen table in my apartment and looked at the bottle of Jack Daniels before me. Just enough left in there for one decent drink. As I poured the remainder of the Jack into my glass, a smile broke across my face. I realized that when I bought this fifth of Jack, I was really at the edge of falling into that deep discontent. This drink would undoubtedly taste different than the first drink off the bottle.

I looked out the window and a light rain was starting to fall. The weather changed drastically since last weekend, when we had temperatures well exceeding 90 degrees Fahrenheit. It was in the 50s now. The contrast mirrors my own weather change. I opened the window a crack to soak in the comforting sound of rain and a train sounded in the distance. My smile deepened.

The enlightenment of Saturday was put into solid motion yesterday. I've secured approval from my amazing boss and I submitted my 30 day notice on my apartment. There is no false ambiguity, no forced motion, no restlessness. Not anymore.

I dream of the sea constantly these days.

I know where I'm headed.

I know I'm a writer.

This is my Hero's Journey.


...to be continued.....

Towards Paris

Paris is really only 47 days away. I know it has been creeping up on me and I know I'm going. Yet, I've been feeling incredibly oblivious about it. So much so that once the basic elements were secured - approval from boss, apartment, and ticket - I feel like it just became this suspended thing. Spending a month in Paris was such a fixation for many months (and really, a lifetime!) and my mind was buzzing with how to make it work. The ambition behind that fixation brought about a great investment of energy - planning, buying books and Paris related items, working on my French language lessons, etc.

I was buying up little tokens of Paris, like my beautiful Paris charm necklaces, Paris magnets, the very hip Moleskin City Notebook Paris, the neat little package of Paris City Walks, and so much more. I was eagerly engaged in my Rosetta Stone lessons, watching French in Action episodes and actually using French phrases and words in emails and conversations with friends. I was voraciously stuffing my Netflix queue with French films, reading Balzac, Voltaire and Flaubert as though French literature was the only thing to ever exist.

Yet, somehow, once those fundamental commitments were made with work, apartment, and airfare, that energy subsided substantially. My French Phrase-A-Day calendar is sitting over there on the shelf, still on some date in March. That great Moleskin planner has just a few places of interest written in it (Ladurée, Vaux le Vicomte, Museé Carnavalet, Museé Rodin, and Belle Hortense bookshop), and I even started a Towards Paris blog but the inspiration for such has waned considerably. Although I feel that there is much to write about where this upcoming trip is concerned, I sit down to blog about it and the words just aren't there.

Earlier this week I had an awful feeling that my seeming lack of interest in Paris meant that I wasn't truly thrilled about this upcoming trip. I feared that maybe my previously held conviction about Paris being a gateway to a fuller life was somehow false. And then, just as instantly as this last and painful thought emerged, I became acutely aware of a recurring theme in my dreams... baggage. I've had countless dreams about baggage. In many of the dreams, I suddenly realize that I am responsible for all of this luggage around me, that I somehow have to lug all of these bags around and realistically, not one person could carry so much on their own. Or dreams of packing and repacking to an unnecessary degree for a trip I never actually embark on within the dream because I'm spending an insane amount of time packing.

In thinking about this symbol within my dreams, the "aha" moment came. I realize that once I made the commitment to myself to spend a month in Paris and actually spoke with my boss, booked the apartment, and received the airline miles from my sister, I was off the hook with myself, so to speak. I didn't feel some ridiculous urgency to spend all my free time learning the French language and consuming all things French because I know I'm going to be living it. And that's not to say that learning French or reading about France has ever been a chore, but I think that much of my energy spent steeped in such was a substitute effort to quench my desire.

So often in life, I've over-prepared for things that I've never carried out. And in investing so much energy in the planning and preparing, I feel that I (we?) sub-consciously attempt to substitute for the actual experience. Maybe it is a kind of fear that prevents us from really living out the experience, embarking on the actual journey. Whatever it is, somehow we manage to keep our dream barely alive by surrounding ourselves with knowledge and "souvenirs" of a journey we may never actually take. Really, trying to keep that dream barely alive is far more exhausting than carrying out the dream.

Once I committed to this month in Paris, I felt a tremendous easiness about my dreams of Paris. I know that I'm absolutely open to the experience and I don't feel some enormous pressure to be "prepared." I'm not trying to control the experience and I've not set any expectations on the trip, which is wonderful. Just committing to this trip has already put me closer to that symbolic gateway. And yes, with it (as demonstrated in my previous post) a divine discontent. That sensation of being alive started invading every aspect of my psyche. If I can commit to this month in Paris, what else am I willing to do with my life?

It seems ridiculous at times, thinking that we might be afraid to pursue what seems like a simple and relatively easy dream such as spending a month in Paris. Yet, we deny ourselves our dreams so often and so aggressively. Why is that? Possibly because that consciousness makes us feel so much and urges us to action?

In thinking about posting this last night, I felt a resurgence of interest in my French language lessons and much delight in glimpses of the upcoming month in Paris. But this feeling was a new one, an easy one. I'm really going. And now, after allowing myself these past couple months of suspending that energy, I feel revitalized. My French books and trinkets look different. They feel real. And suddenly, so do I.

Direction

I feel torn. I feel that I'm standing smack in the middle of this pictured crossroads. There is nothing strongly inducing me to move in one direction over the others. However, the feeling of pleasant isolation this crossroads initially brought about is wearing thin. Yet, despite being ultimately free to move in any direction I choose, despite feeling that I could find my way back to this crossroads if necessary, I find myself rendered utterly immobile.

I feel restless. I know myself. I know that I stagnate in too-familiar surroundings. I've known since I was very young that I had to travel, that I had to live other places and experience a significant "out of my element" feeling. However, I'm standing here, in this crossroads and not hearing a sound. I believe I see glimpses of what might be down each road, but just as quickly, I am enveloped in silence.

I feel that I could take various directions with my life and not one seems particularly "right" or "better." All I really "know" is that I'm a writer. That is the only constant. There is no fixed physical destination in my mind but rather, a myriad of places I could live. I see a life in Paris, learning French at the Sorbonne, writing in cafés and taking the train to the countryside frequently. I see a life in the South, languid days sitting on a porch with ceiling fans, writing in the early morning, watching a huge sun emerge from the eastern horizon and setting over a western marsh.

I feel an ever growing desire for a more rural life. When I drive out to see my sister E in the country, I reach this point when the miserable suburbs and freeways are behind me and the sky just opens up before me and I feel my soul expand exponentially. My dad's stories of growing up on a farm in Illinois speak more to me than ever. I feel such felicity riding his John Deere around the yard and whilst mowing his lawn, I fantasize about having acres of my own land to mow, the sun dipping in the western sky, returning to a house with a huge porch, drinking a beer and listening to Górecki's "Symphony No.3" with a yellow lab at my feet and a strong, masculine man that will pick me up on a whim and adore my paradoxical quirks.

I know that I could have the best-of-both-worlds, living in a rural environment not far from a city. But where? Here? I just don't know. I just feel this enormous internal pressure to go. I feel that there is something out there that is imperative to living a truly fulfilling life. So, why do I feel immobile? Because I don't know where to start, I don't want to completely let go of what is here? Sometimes I think I'm just waiting for life to happen to me. And other times I feel that if writing is my one constant, why don't I start there and fully put myself into that and let the rest unfold? Well, my month in Paris is on the horizon and I've told myself to just weather this restlessness until July and once I'm home in August, go from there.

“I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright. It is not indifferent to us which way we walk. There is a right way; but we are very liable from heedlessness and stupidity to take the wrong one. We would fain take that walk, never yet taken by us through this actual world, which is perfectly symbolical of the path which we love to travel in the interior and ideal world; and sometimes, no doubt, we find it difficult to choose our direction, because it does not yet exist distinctly in our idea.”
-Henry David Thoreau

*Image from here.

Les Framboises

Why do raspberries so make me think of France? Simply and independently because I adore both? No, there is something more to it than that.

I've long adored raspberries. Biting into that faintly fuzzy skin, the fuzz gently tickling your lips, giving way to a soft and momentary gel-like sensation against your front teeth and then to your tongue, where its perfectly slight tartness overcomes your senses and taste and texture hover harmoniously.

My love of raspberries is inextricably linked to France somehow. I've always enjoyed raspberries but have only just visited France for the first time in 2006, where I spent but a week in Paris (not that it takes any longer to be fully enamored) and my only recollection of tasting raspberries was of a raspberry tartlette purchased from the bakery, Paul. I selected the raspberry tartlette because it called out to me (along with the café flavored macaron), a perfectly glazed little beauty with every conceivable inch of the top of the tartlette covered with glazed raspberries. I took it back to my hotel room at the end of what was the most beautifully sunny day during my week in Paris.

As I sat on the bed of my small hotel room, the veranda's French doors wide open before me, I bit into the tartlette and melted. It was so ridiculously delicious... perfectly and simultaneously sweet and tart. The texture was softly dense, the glazed raspberries delightfully slimy, and the crust buttery and delicately crumbly. I feebly attempted to capture the essence of that very tartlette I purchased from Paul in Paris. I suppose I was salivating so profusely, I gave up further attempts to capture its true essence. Thus, this photo falls quite short of the tartlette's true beauty but does remind me of that delightful moment of anticipation before first biting into it:
A couple of days ago, I saw a photograph of a raspberry dessert. It was not a tartlette and for the life of me, I cannot recall exactly what it was. But those raspberries in the photograph immediately stirred something within me. You know how you can bite into something and be taken back to a fond childhood memory (like that precious scene in Ratatouille where the bitterly harsh food critic bites into the ratatouille before him and is instantly taken back to that moment of childhood, in which his mother was preparing the simple stew for him) and all the sensations of that moment flash within you briefly but powerfully? Yes, seeing this image of the raspberries was something like that. But rather than being a past memory, it felt like a flash of sensations and memories I have yet to live. Do you know this feeling?

The same day I came across that photograph I read Function of Time's post, which included mention of the raspberry tartlette she purchased from Paul! This further stirred that sensation within me and hasn't left me since. How can this sweet little berry produce such a profound longing for France within me? Was it really just that one tartlette? I don't think so. The sensation seems yet to be fully realized. Isn't that exciting? To think that we can experience such profound sensations for memories yet to come?

*First photo from here. Second photo is mine.

The Universe Conspires

"When you want something,
all the universe conspires
in helping you to achieve it."
-Paulo Coelho

I've long known what it is I want to pursue (namely, writing and being a writer) and that immersing myself in the avenues of inspiration that speak to my soul best (travel, reading, nature, connecting with others) will truly yield a fulfilling and happy life. When I'm really focused on my dreams/Personal Legend, the universe repeatedly shows me that it is conspiring to help me achieve those dreams. But sometimes we need to proclaim those dreams... we need to not only carry them within ourselves, but we need to throw them out into the universe.

I return again and again to this notion and quote of the universe conspiring, now more than ever. Before a year ago, I don't know that I really embraced all this simple statement promises. However, I am now awake. I have never felt so in tune with the natural force of life and its tremendous gifts. Undeniably, reading has always opened me up in tremendous ways. The Alchemist, Joseph Campbell, the Tao Te Ching, and literature (from Herman Hesse to Dostoevsky) have all helped me reach this point of awareness and acceptance. These influences have found me at the right time but not without my calling out to the universe, asking for them, but obscurely. And so they have become amazing and rewarding surprises, presenting themselves at the most opportune time.

Amazing things are happening in my life right now. An amazing sense of strength and spirit is guiding me so clearly. Amazing people are emerging and offering me gifts of friendship that are so unreal to me. I feel so in sync with who I truly am and all that I want for my life.

Months ago, I proclaimed to the universe that I wanted to go back to Paris. The desire and strong sense that this was something imperative to my destiny overcame me. Before I knew it, I posted my desire and love of Paris here on this blog. I started connecting with people who shared this love of Paris and before I knew it, I secured an apartment in Paris for the month of July. Just a few weeks ago, I watched my sister's pet for her while she was away on business for two weeks. In appreciation, she offered me ALL her airline miles, which will pay for my roundtrip ticket to Paris!

At the same time I started posting about my love of Paris, I was also telling the universe that I really wanted "someone" in my life that would "get me." Of course, I thought this was a plea for a meaningful, all encompassing, intimate relationship with a man but it is interesting that over and over in my mind it was just that statement, "I really want someone in my life that gets me." And so, I threw it out into the universe, just like that. Amidst such, I had also been feeling that I do not have strong friendships in my life right now and specifically, great female friends. I'm fortunate to have my sisters and they are certainly my friends but I started feeling a void of female friendships. And I found myself saying that aloud to my sister one night when we were out for drinks.

Not long after that, I met my friend Melissa at the gym. She worked at the front desk and we would greet each other in passing as I came in and out of the gym. She graciously put up with my repeated requests to change the televisions in the cardio area to certain football games and one day when I saw her reading Hemingway at work, we started talking about literature. That was about four months ago and it feels as though we have long been friends. Interests in literature, LOST, and great conversations about a myriad of things have all been eagerly shared over many drinks and great food. She listens so willingly and with such compassion. Truly a sincere friend.

At this same time, I also found my sister soul mate, LBR. Having declared to the universe that I wanted so badly to have someone in my life that "gets me" produced more than I ever could have imagined in her friendship. Meeting via our blogs, we really connected at a time of seeming darkness. From there, amazing connections between us continued to unfold and there seems to be this endless amount of lovely surprises in our friendship. Our mutual interest in Paris, writing, literature, symbols, dreams, and the most insane silliness... astounds me daily. How could I find someone so absolutely and equally eager to consume large quantities of macarons and Jack Daniels simultaneously?!?! The spectrum of emotions and topics we cover and with such equal enthusiasm and openness is surreal to me. But it is all very real... here she is in my life and I cannot adequately express the sense of hope and strength I find in her friendship daily.

A large part of my courage in having faith to book my trip to Paris stems from her desire to do the same. Meeting her in this way and at this time is no mere coincidence. How could you possibly explain that before having even known the other person existed, we both had it set in our individual minds that we wanted to be in Paris for the entire month of July and that this trip to Paris was not just a vacation, but a necessary part of our destiny?!?! This immense sense of friendship stems not only from what interests we share. There is this somewhat indescribable luminosity about her friendship, all that she opens me up to, her compassion and support, her laughter and openness. I feel that I bare myself and my absolute darkest experiences and struggles with absolute trust. We lean on one another but without any concerted effort. She is truly a gift to my life and that is such an understatement.

So, here the universe has conspired and made my life abundant with female friendships that have long been absent from my life. Here I am, about to go to Paris for a month. The ticket and apartment are essentially secured and with my incredibly flexible job, my being gone is an absolute non-issue, thanks to a wonderful boss who so values life outside of work. I've been so happy and grateful for all that the universe has conspired to bring me, because I am on that true path. Yet, I was still cognizant that my relationships with men continue to feel precarious. A lingering relationship that I've found myself with one foot in and one foot out of, sometimes longing to return to it despite all the signs from the universe that it is not right. The disappointment and sting of male "friends" who reveal that they don't really want just a platonic friendship with me despite a foundation that does indeed point to the possibility of a good friendship.

However, the universe conspires again. I have met another incredible friend at the gym (yes, I go to the gym A LOT). His peaceful energy and insightful nature add so much depth and inspiration to my life. My fears of his possessing ulterior motives were quickly dispelled and I feel that this relationship will not only lend to my growth as a creative spirit, but it is already proving such a healing balm to the bruises of my past where male relationships are concerned, providing me with a sense of a healthy male friendship. He is also a writer (again, how could such be considered mere coincidence?) and our conversations are so inspiring to my own writing and creative direction. It is amazing how his influence has already brought about increased authenticity and a fuller perception of everything in my daily life.

Maybe this is all too touchy-feely or Pollyanna for some of you. I know that it may have been for me many years ago. Chance and luck are only a part of life. Why do we refuse to acknowledge that when we are true to our nature, when we trust and open ourselves, when we scrape away all that we think we need/want and peel back the superficial layers... then and only then do we really live full and abundant lives. Why do we feel that happiness and fulfillment must come from sacrificing years and years to meaningless pursuits, hoping that commitment to such will somehow allow us to stumble upon some jackpot of happiness? All that happiness and fulfillment require are assent to our true destinies. No force, no anguish, no real sacrifice is really required. The abundance is just waiting for each and everyone and it is inexhaustible. The universe does not discriminate. But we have to ask for it, we have to give ourselves willingly and wholly to the possibilities.

I feel so grateful for every little moment in my day. My senses are so heightened to all that is around me. I am happy and free. I am awake and truly alive. I am grateful to the universe for bringing each and everyone of you into my life. Thank you for the many gifts you bestow upon me so willingly.

French Phrase #4

l'arbre ne tombe pas du premier coup

(persistence! persistence!)

From Les Bons Mots: Translated as "the tree does not fall at the first blow," telling us that we have to be prepared to work hard to gain any desired end.

[Oui, I am posting two phrases of the day. Why? Pourquoi pas!]

French Phrase #3

Elle parle français comme une vache espagnole.

(She massacres the French language)

From Les Bons Mots: Literally, "she speaks French like a Spanish cow." It is not surprising that this French characterization has persisted, since the French so love their language, and Spaniards are a nearby target.

I thought I would lighten up my blog with this phrase. I think this will be very important to know while in France, so when someone utters this phrase about my French, at least I won't smile and nod unknowingly. And it proves very useful to say to myself right now, as I'm re-learning French. Moi, Je parle français comme une vache espagnole.

A Dream Not Fully Pursued

I often wonder how my life might look to me from a suspended point of view. Retrospection is available and helps put my past in perspective. It teaches me much about who I am and what I want from life based upon where I've been and what decisions I've made. But I often wonder what my life could become if I do not pursue my dreams fully. I look around me and see many people living out daily lives that lack passion and a sense of being "awake." I want to wake them up and help them see again but simultaneously acknowledge that my life could become such an existence if I ignore my dreams.

I often wonder when those dreams (the soul/the daimon/the inner voice, etc.) stop screaming at us for attention. I wonder at what point that inner calling just seems to abandon us because we've abandoned it? And then, as I type this, I feel strongly that the daimon does not abandon us but rather, we strangle it. We bury it deeper and deeper over time, quieting it, convincing ourselves absurd things along the lines of obligations, bad timing, blah, blah, blah. The energy it takes to bury our dreams is greater than the energy it would take to pursue them fully.

A personal fear of mine is that I will live a half life. That I will retain strong awareness of my dreams but settle on the thought of a dream without fully pursuing it. Maybe I'll cheapen my dreams, water them down and try to convince myself that it isn't in the cards for me, that I'm not fortunate or good enough to really live a full life. Maybe I'll buy more French trinkets and continue posting on my blog, convincing myself that I am writing something and I've been to Paris for a week in my lifetime. And when I recognize that no miraculous feeling or way of life ultimately comes from such, I'll resign myself to believe that maybe I'm destined for this half life. [Can you hear my soul screaming violently right now at the thought of such?!]

My very good friend mentioned this movie short from "Paris, Je T'Aime" recently and it is so interesting because I saw almost all of this movie a little over a month ago but didn't catch the ending and this short was one of the last. Upon watching it, I immediately felt a sensation that this woman here could easily be me in 10-15 years if I do not live out my dreams:



My heart aches for this woman because she knows her dreams but she has relegated them to a week's vacation along with some French lessons back in America. She stays in her hotel room most of the time and eats hamburgers and Chinese food while there! It was so sad to hear her mention her ex-boyfriend, wondering what he would have thought of Paris. And then you discover that he has been married with kids for many years since they broke up! And then at the very end she experiences that very powerful feeling... that feeling of simultaneous sadness and joy. She is awake for that very moment and it is so beautiful and yet, in her case, so tragic.

I refuse to be this woman. Please know that there is no cruelty intended in saying such. I want to have hope for her. I want to believe that she will be forever changed and really pursue her dreams and life with more passion and determination. But I don't think that will be the case. I think she will forever return to that sensation of being awake and long for it. However, we all have that ability and yet how easily we allow it to be quieted by daily noise, allowing it to reemerge only as a kind of nostalgia.

I truly cannot be this woman... aware of her dreams yet never pursuing them fully. Her loneliness and emptiness cries out to me. I too am independent and can see myself shutting off and getting a dog and a house and trudging along in a job and stagnant lifestyle. I can be very good at convincing myself things and instead of using my mind to write and explore, I'll use it to imprison myself.

My fellow Francophiles will appreciate my dream of Paris. It is not a vacation I seek or some romantic notion of Paris. Rather, I know that Paris is the gateway to my dreams. If I fully give myself to Paris, all my other dreams will unfold a truly amazing life in due time... one that I cannot attempt to predict. I can say that I do feel with utmost conviction that Paris will truly serve to help unlock my true self... the writer in me. But again, only if I give myself fully to the dream and right now, Paris is the form of my dreams. And living this dream fully means that I will have to live out that experience fully when there (more of this idea to come in later posts).

I'm more than ready. I'm done talking myself out of this dream and this video serves as a poignant reminder of what my half life might look like one day, even in Paris! I want to live a full life. Don't you?

French Phrase #2

Je fais peau neuve

(I'm turning over a new leaf)

Literal: I'm getting new skin.

"We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us. The old skin has to be shed before the new one can come." - Joseph Campbell

French Phrase #1

élan vital

vital, creative force

From Les Bons Mots: Literally, "vital ardor." The French philosopher Henri Bergson (1859-1941) advanced the idea that a creative force of living things is responsible for growth, change, and desirable adaptations of organisms. The phrase was taken into English without change of meaning or pronunciation, indicating that there is no better way to express élan vital.

Resolution: French Phrase A Week

Okay, so not being big on New Year's Resolutions (why must January 1st be some great marker for change?!) but also appreciating resolutions... I am going to introduce another blog resolution. Last year, I resolved to read at least one book a month and blog about it. When I made that blogging resolution, it seemed so silly. I love to read... why should I have to resolve to read at least a book a month? Well, like getting to Paris, daily distractions can eat away at me and before I know it, two months can pass without reading a book. It's ridiculous how we can let our passions go without fully realizing we are choosing to do so on some level.

Anyway, in an effort to make small but meaningful steps towards Paris, I want to post a French phrase each week. I have a great book with all these great French phrases and slang terms called Les Bons Mots and I just bought myself a French Phrase A Day desk calendar. Part of my dream to be in France includes my actually speaking the language, challenging myself to speak more fluently and maybe one day becoming bilingual, as I am very fond of all things French, including their beautiful language.

Wow... as small a step as this might be... just stating that I will do it (as with reading a book a month and losing ten pounds by February 1st... both of which continue to go so well save for my December reading perhaps!) feels like a considerable step forward. Okay, I'll stop dorking out now! :)

First French Phrase A Week to come!

Towards Paris

"Do not fear slow progress, 

but do fear stagnation."

 - Chinese proverb

Slow progress used to seem so, er... slow to me. I often convinced myself that pursuing that which is meaningful to me must be done with as much force and zeal as physically possible. I thought that unless a dream or pursuit was given your complete and immediate effort, it could never really be attained. I thought the same about love, too.  I'd like to think at times that I've been wise to this Chinese proverb for years now but I think it is a lesson that I must remind myself constantly. 

The other day, as I was just starting to decompress from a hectic few weeks, I started to scribble down some things I've been wanting to blog about for some time now. Without giving it much thought, I wrote down "Towards Paris." Those two words have lingered with me since and interestingly, LBR used those same two words in a recent correspondence with me. We were considering the many times in my life in which I have wanted to go to Paris and in which I was convinced (both by myself and people around me) that doing so would simply be running away. But LBR reminded me of the difference between running away and moving towards. That notion of running towards seems daunting at times... it makes me feel that I am going to miss something or lose sight of something by running. And really I think it comes down to allowing that common all-or-nothing notion to plague me too often. 

Moving towards Paris, towards my dreams, towards that which is meaningful... it doesn't have to be an all out sprint to the finish line. I remember last year when I didn't have a car for most of the year. Instead of jumping in the car and making a quick trip to the grocery store or to get coffee, I had to walk. And to get my coffee, I would walk through this beautiful park and part of campus. Having to walk made me slow down and enjoy things around me that I had previously sped past. I would often sit in the park, stop by the quaint art gallery, swing at the playground, stop to pet a dog. Pursuing our dreams, our bliss, our happiness... should be a journey not a marathon. 

Just as this proverb reminds me that small steps can still be progress, it also comes with a poignant caveat to fear stagnation. Although our steps may seem small and insignificant on their own, we cannot stop inching forward. Progress is really only measured on a personal level. Are we truly moving towards that which is meaningful to us or are we waiting for significance to find us? We don't have to be sprinting towards something, but are we at least inching forward?

As with just about everything in life, there seems to be a delicate balance here... a balance between pursuing that which is important to us and letting things unfold along the journey. I don't necessarily perceive of it as a tightrope act, either. We fear that vulnerability of being on a tightrope but even on a tightrope, it only really becomes scary when we stop and look down, when we doubt our movement. I think achieving this balance primarily (and simply) requires our consent. For me, it is also a mantra that begs repeating daily, lest I should lose sight of what those small steps can really lead to or what letting go of those small steps can bring... stagnation and mere existence. 

So, thanks to the reminder this proverb brings, along with all the great reminders from friends and loved ones as of late (my sister gave me this proverb on a postcard for Christmas). 

Paris Beckons...Further

Last week I got an email from the editor of Schmap, an online travel guide and they have short-listed one of my Paris photos for their next Paris Travel Guide. They short-listed this image I took of Bazar de l'Hôtel de Ville last year. It was such a beautiful sunny day (obviously) and probably the best day I spent in Paris. I walked through the Latin Quarter and Saint Germain (the 4th and 5th arrondissements) all day. 

This short-listing comes as quite a surprise, as I never submitted any photos. But it further reiterates that Paris beckons. I was also happy to hear that one of Colleen's photos was selected as well. It never ceases to amaze me how following one's true path can really yield such wonderful surprises. And these wonderful surprises, as small as they might seem, inspire me incredibly and I feel one step closer to Paris.