Being Alive Takes Time

Being alive takes time. I wrote these words on a post-it note by my computer. These words have been sitting here for a few months now. I can't remember exactly what inspired me to write them down or where I found this statement. But here they are staring at me. Some days I wonder what the hell that statement even means to me. Some days I want to replace those words with, being alive is fucking hard. But let's face it, we need no reminder of that.

I know I'm not alone in saying that I've been feeling a pretty wicked malaise for awhile now. This malaise breaks on occasion with happy thoughts of Paris and my other upcoming travels. The malaise even breaks for a beautiful moon or a happy dog in passing. Yet, the malaise seems to pervade. It's just a matter of degree. And the malaise easily finds opportunity to feed itself on all manner of things. I got my hair done yesterday and opted to go lighter instead of darker. Immediately after, I felt irritated that I didn't go darker but I'd be feeling the opposite if I had done the opposite. Just below the surface, I know full well that it isn't the hair. It's just an opportunity for that malaise to manifest itself in apparent ways... in this case, every time I pass a mirror. Oh, that malaise knows what it is doing!

When I think about this malaise, I think about how hard we can be on ourselves. I truly read other bloggers' feelings about their/your own malaise, frustration, anxiety, exhaustion with it all... and I feel that they/you are so very courageous. I fully appreciate the honesty of such expression and I see incredible human beings tackling life with passion and authenticity. I feel connected and compassionate. I know that there is no success without failure, no courage without fear. I embrace this struggle in others. However, I just see myself as a hot mess.

Being alive is difficult and that is why it takes time. I don't perceive this statement as asserting that it takes a certain amount of time to reach "aliveness" but rather, once we commit to being fully alive, it takes patience and time to grow. That choice to be fully alive comes with great (and often rather painful) awareness. We are aware of who we are, where we've been, what patterns we've been automatically following that might be incongruent with who we really are. And that is a heavy load. Of course we will feel malaise, sadness, frustration, loss, anxiety. Huge changes are afoot for all of us.

There is a duality in everything and a degree to that duality. The more we dare to be alive, the more likely we will feel the depths of pain. But with such comes tremendous heights of happiness, too. There is no escaping sadness, pain, struggle. And why should there be? The struggle is essential. These are the times we really discover what we are about, what matters to us, what splintering path we are to take on this journey.

And no, we can't fully appreciate this on our own. We are hard on ourselves, we see failure instead of valiant effort, weakness instead of strength. But we have each other. In just the last two weeks, reading about your various struggles has made me stronger, more brave, more accepting of my own struggles. Thank you all for that! I don't read your blogs because you have exciting lives, because you live in France or are planning to. I read your blogs because you are authentic and share a part of yourself that transcends place and the material. You are alive and not only does that take time but it takes balls tremendous courage and strength of character. I consider myself so fortunate that each of you share yourselves so freely and beautifully. It is a steady source of inspiration.

The only other quote I have at my desk right now is a Chinese proverb postcard that reads, "do not fear slow progress, but do fear stagnation." Be gentle with yourselves, dear readers. And I'll promise to try and do the same for myself. And when that fails us, we have one another to lean on. Thanks for holding me up so willingly!

The Great Urge... in the Words of Steinbeck

"When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ship's whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, I don't improve; in further words, once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable. I set this matter down not to instruct others but to inform myself.

"When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find himself a good and sufficient reason for going. This to the practical bum is not difficult. He has a built-in garden of reasons to choose from. Next he must plan his trip in time and space, choose a direction and a destination. And last he must implement the journey. How to go, what to take, how long to stay. This art of the process is invariable and immortal. I set it down only so that newcomers to bumdom, like teen-agers in new-hatched sin, will not think they invented it.

"Once a journey is designed, equipped, and put in process; a new factor enters and takes over. A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has a personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. Tour masters, schedules, reservations, brass-bound and inevitable, dash themselves to wreckage on the personality of the trip. Only when this is recognzied can the blown-in-the-glass bum relax and go along with it. Only then do the frustrations fall away. In this a journey is like a marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it. I feel better now, having said this, although only those who have experienced it will understand it."


Interestingly, La Framéricaine mentioned "Travels with Charley" in her thoughtful comment on my last post. I own the book and read it a couple of years ago. Her comment inspired me to pull it off the bookshelf and reread it. When I picked the book up, a receipt fell out of the book. I bought the book exactly 2 years ago to that day... June 1st! A flood of memories besieged me. I bought it at the OSU bookstore before I headed to Baltimore to drive cross country with my sister. What a great road trip that was and how it inspired me to make that first great trip to Paris just a few months after! Sometimes I like to leave receipts, photos, leaves, or notes in the pages of books as I read them. They definitely prove to be lovely memories that always surprise me much later. Ah, memories. How powerful and inspiring. I mean, there the book has been sitting for quite some time and certainly I did not forget that I had read and enjoyed it. But it was that receipt that triggered so much awareness!

This great urge to journey is as much a part of me as my brown eyes and eager smile. It doesn't diminish, it never goes away. I so feel the itch Steinbeck so wonderfully describes in this opening passage of "Travels with Charley." The heavy sound of a train in the distance, its destination unknown but its journey certain. The exciting feeling I always get when I go to the airport, even when I am not the one traveling. Driving down an unknown road, great music playing... the rush of feeling that the open road brings. It haunts me, it pleads with me, it sees right through those substitute experiences I try to appease it with.

I give in. I yield. I soar.

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.

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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.

Among the Living

As I was lying in bed two weeks ago, wickedly sick with the flu, I felt this incredible sense of isolation. Isolated from human contact, daily activities, from fresh air and motion, I felt so stagnant. I vowed to myself that I would really get out more once I recovered. With a brand new camera sitting on my desk, begging to be used (yes, I finally broke down and bought a Canon EOS Digital Rebel), I devised a plan. I determined that each weekend I will make a day trip someplace within about a two hour drive. I will only take my camera, a book, and things to write with. Wherever I go, I will enjoy my surroundings and read, write, and photograph. I also decided to get out more in general and just go do things that I often think about doing but never actually do. I'm really accustomed to doing things alone and that doesn't really bother me at all but I guess I so often find myself doing the same limited things out of routine or feeling less inclined to try new things because the experience is not shared. Yet, as was reiterated to me this weekend, participating in life is always a shared event.

 

So, I woke up on Saturday morning and drove to the beach. I was fully anticipating a very wet and gray day. I was more than happy with the drive itself and the thought of sitting in a coffee shop or at an overlook in my car, writing and reading. But when I arrived at the beach, the clouds parted somewhat and the sun emerged. The day was incredible. I walked up and down the quiet main street, walked down to the beach, and in and out of bookstores and art galleries. I indulged a pancake craving that I had sustained while sick and later, sat on a bench and enjoyed a vanilla latte while writing and watching passers-by. It was such a great day. I felt so completely at ease and still. Time was of no issue. I wasn't in a hurry to get there, frantically passing cars where possible. Instead, I felt utterly at leisure. I stopped and photographed some huge uprooted trees from a recent storm and was happy to see the promise of spring in blooming daffodils at the beach:

On Sunday, I walked down to watch the Oregon State Beavers baseball team play Georgia here in the city. Again, the day proved to be beautiful, the sun was pleasantly warm on my face. I realized how much I missed sitting in a baseball park and I relished the experience further with a hot dog and beer. I sat four rows up between third base and home plate. Two couples in their late 40s sat next to me and their four sons sat in front of them. One of the wives noticed that I was sitting alone and inquired if my friends had abandoned me. I smiled and told her that I came alone. She quickly moved her coat from the seat between us and told me to join them. She introduced me to her husband and friends and then the four adorable boys. The wives and I chatted during the game, talking about the city, their lives as parents, and their general feelings about watching their sons grow into little men. The boys all high-fived me when the Beavers scored or made a great play. The husbands apparently had a Little League meeting that evening and the wives giggled as they plotted their evening together at home with the boys and a pitcher of margaritas. It felt strangely comforting to be a part of their lives for a few innings of a baseball game.

 

When I was getting my hot dog and beer at the concession stand, a former neighbor of mine from college was standing in front of me. We lived in the dorms next door to each other when I returned to grad school. He was a freshman then and would often burn CDs and movies for me and I would listen to some of his frustrations and offer encouragement. After the game, walking home, I also ran into a friend I knew in grad school over three years ago. He and I had several Sociology classes together and often engaged in great conversations about social issues and making a difference in this world. I was happy to hear that despite having a full time job as an electrician, he leaves work almost every day during the week and goes to a children's center for a few hours, working with severely troubled kids.

 

So, despite getting out and doing these things alone, I felt incredibly connected to everyone around me, not just those two people I ran into from college. Even people who passed by me on the main street, the bride and groom being photographed on the beach, the teenage couple that sat nearby during the game... they all lent to that feeling of being connected, regardless of the fact that I did not exchange words with many of them.

 

I felt a sense of hope as I participated more fully in life this weekend. I felt hopeful about the possibility of having a family of my own one day and sitting at a baseball game with them, hopeful about being a writer, hopeful about humanity. I could see the goodness in everyone and everything around me. This hope didn't accelerate a sense of longing for those things, however. Instead, it revealed that everything comes in its due time. When we try to force things, that's when we find ourselves frustrated, unable, limited, and often when we feel like we've failed. Opportunities will present themselves when they are right. And if we are patient and open, we will recognize those opportunities and enter into them, ready. The daffodils I photographed above are a testament to this. They return every spring, often surprising us by emerging before expected. They emerge and reemerge in due time. And they are lovelier for such. 

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?

Au Revoir, 2007

Saying goodbye to 2007 seems apt. It feels as though I've really said goodbye to a lot this year... to people in my life, to notions about myself and what I was pursuing, among other things. I started this year in a somewhat turbulent way. I knew I needed to make major changes in my life (again) and after some very precarious decisions and truly, putting myself out on a lonely limb, I realized those changes.

 

Part of changing requires some serious self-reflection and then an awkward state of transition. The transition is necessary and often transition makes us feel weird about things. Of course, life is a series of transitioning but do we really embrace that transitioning and all that it brings? For me, it is how I emerge that makes all the difference. Those months of weirdness were really tough and quite lonely but necessarily so in order to emerge with a renewed sense of hope and stronger sense of self and purpose. 

I am finally starting to feel that renewed sense of hope and starting to feel stronger about myself and the pursuit of my dreams. I recognize that I quieted my dreams in 2007 without realizing it.  There are always challenges, though. I feel that I have really thrown myself willingly into self evolution and there are a lot of ups and downs when one does such. I am starting to realize more fully why people don't eagerly pursue full lives. It is hard work to deconstruct much of what you've convinced yourself over the entirety of your life. Deconstruction requires dealing with all the pieces... all those misconceptions about self, society, dreams. For me it seems to be cyclical... weeks in which I feel so alive and abundant, then a stretch of inner turmoil and self questioning. 

Saying goodbye to 2007 is easy for me to do. I always find myself eager to march forward but try to keep sight of what I've been through and what it has taught me. Here are a few of the significant lessons/thoughts/etc. that I retain from 2007 and take with me into 2008:

-Acceptance. Of self, others, life. I've been working on acceptance for many years now and each year I feel significantly better about my acceptance of others and acceptance of life in general. Self acceptance is more challenging for me but I am making progress. 2007 has been huge for me where acceptance is concerned.

-Authenticity. Being myself feels really good. When I pursue that which is important to me, I feel most alive and authentic. And I see the authenticity/lack of in others more clearly. I want to be surrounded by authentic people and hopefully, inspire those who have lost sight of their authentic selves.

-Loving freely feels really great. It requires much vulnerability and accepting the pain of past experiences, but to love so willingly and openly fills my heart and soul. 

-When you pursue your dreams, amazing things happen. I find that when I am focused on my dream of going to France, hidden hands emerge, opportunities abound, and I feel most authentic and happy, without much effort.

-The kindness and generosity of others never ceases to inspire me. 

-There are profound connections in life. I have met a handful of people in my life in which the connection between us was so profound and real from the moment we met. This isn't so much a lesson as it is a rewarding realization. 

-A life lived in pursuit of my dreams is the only life for me. 

-Progress is not measured by speed. Small steps are all that is required but I must not stop taking those small steps. 

-Being open to the possibilities of life is the only way to find happiness. The surprises/unexpected qualities of life are often the most beautiful and fulfilling. I may know what my Personal Legend is but there will be many surprises along the way and beyond. As much as I look forward to being in France this year, I know that is only a small part of the overall experience. 

And on that note, I step into 2008... hopeful, open, and vulnerable. 

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). 

My Personal Legend

A few days ago at work I was starting a new project, mostly travel and scenic images, and I came across an image of five horses moving across a field together. They were moving at a pace between a trot and a canter. The horse in the foreground was chestnut with white socks and the camera captured her motion in such an extraordinary way. She was so beautiful and strong, graceful and purpose driven. As I looked at her, I felt this strange sensation. I wanted to be her. And then I wondered if I was her. 

That very night I had a dream that I was in this gloomy, overcast town and an ominous feeling overcame me. I felt trapped and wondered if I could fly away. So I concentrated for a few minutes and found myself hovering just above the ground. I slowly moved down this eerie street until I reached a small building that people were entering. I followed them in. I knew my horse was in there. We were one. I felt her anxiety, her captivity. I did not see her but I knew she was there with every inch of my being. I could feel her. Very abruptly, I could perceive that they were going to kill her...that this was some sick act for entertainment. I was horrified and knew the only way to get away from that horrific scene was to fly away. 

So, once again, I concentrated and was slowly hovering away from that place. I was still just barely off the ground and had to cross a fast moving river ahead. I was shaky and convinced myself that I was going to fail flying over the river and drown. So I hesitated before crossing. And then I thought about my horse...what she must be going through back there and how could I have left her. And just as immediately as these two fears paralyzed me, I had a profound awakening. I didn't leave her. She was me. She was with me, every part of me. I rescued her. I rescued myself. As soon as I started to realize this, I was over the river and flying so fast and so high up in the sky. It was exhilarating. I was free. 

And then suddenly, I dropped down from the clouds and was flying through the high desert and into this beautiful place with the most majestic snow covered mountain range I've ever seen. The air was so clear and the people below me were living their daily lives. I passed a resort with rich travelers. I passed over a barn with simple, humble farm workers tending a stable of horses. I passed over young adults snowboarding. I felt as though in that brief glimpse of those lives, I was so alive and so free. 

Yet, despite my independence, I was truly one with it all. And then I ascended back into the clouds and was flying fast again. And I wondered, with a bursting soul, where I would end up next. I knew that it would be another beautiful place but thoroughly enjoyed that it would be a surprise. I also knew that the place I started in no longer existed for me. I had overcome that obstacle and my confidence and courage made me fly so high and so fast. And the horse...she was me. I was her. And that oneness gave me the confidence and courage to fly. 

So, what does this tell me (you) about my Personal Legend? A lot. But first things first. For most of you, it will come as no shock when I tell you that a significant part of my Personal Legend (I don't believe our PL is ONE and ONLY ONE "thing." Rather, I think that there are components) is that I am a writer. I've talked with several of you about this (most recently, La Belette Rouge) before. Although I have abandoned my editorial career and my freelance writing, I still consider myself a writer. I don't have to be currently engaged in writing something to claim this, either. It is who I am to the core. I have known this almost all of my life. It is who I am. Sure, my job is working with stock photography, but that's not my PL. It's funny because I think that we should almost have business cards with our PL on them when we are very young. When we meet people, we should give them our card identifying our PL. No phone number or email for networking... just that statement. And that is how we should represent ourselves. Not by what we do to sustain a living but by who we truly are. 

At an early age, I was devouring books. I would write my own stories (even if just in my head) or just think of things in abstract ways and write them down. I never stood on the kitchen table during dinner and declared, "I am a writer!!" My parents were great about letting me get books and encouraging my interests to an extent, but realizing my PL was never a bold and focused realization. It was just there, most often on a subconscious level, perhaps. So, when people tell me that they don't have a PL and have never known their PL, I feel that is completely false. We all have one. Some have just been buried deeper over time. My PL was there and I never lost sight of it for long. However, like so many, I denied it and convinced myself that I needed to be practical and establish a "real" career, blah, blah, blah. So, my 20s were spent denying a lot of who I was. But even when I abandoned business and pursued publishing and freelance writing, I felt disappointed. I realized that as much as I am a writer, I don't want it to become a job for me. As soon as something becomes a job and I am dependent upon it to survive, the inspiration just vanishes. I also know for certain that being published is not necessary for me to feel I am really living out my PL. I just want to be truly proud of what I write, even if only a few close friends/family ever see it. 

So, that seems easy, right? I mean, in a lot of ways, I am living out my PL already. I may have to work full time and deal with all the other responsibilities of life, but I can write and I am continually inspired. That is not a wasted life by any means in my estimation. But there is another huge component of my PL that I feel is mounting in significance. I have this overwhelming feeling that my being a writer and living my life to the fullest is very dependent upon my going to France. I was there last year for one week and it was incredible. But I know that I need to go back. And I don't know much more than that. I don't know that I have to move there permanently but I know I have to go for at least a month for now. 

Something tells me that Paris is significant but I also have this sneaking suspicion that Paris is a gateway to something more... something I cannot yet envision. But it is crucial. My going to Europe in the very near future is absolutely necessary to my PL. And this component seems so intriguing to me. I mean, I have known for most of my life that I am a writer and again, not being worried about being a prolific writer, a published writer, etc. really relieves pressure that other writers likely feel. But the pressing urgency to go to Europe (namely Paris and other parts of France) is undeniable. I cannot explain where this feeling came from or what it means. It is more than just wanting to go away on vacation and see the world. It is so much more than that. And the more I think about it, I realize it has been floating around in my subconscious for most of my life. My fascination with French, my taking French language lessons over other choices, my French heritage on my father's side. It has all been there and maybe I did just assume for so long that my attraction to Paris/France was superficial... just to travel for vacation or because it was a chic place to long for. But no... it is so much more than that and I must do something now. 

So, this is where I'm at. I'm a writer... who must go travel to free my soul further... to live my life fully ... to get closer to my Personal Legend. And I am going to make it happen. I will be in Paris/France/Europe for at least one month in the summer of 2008. I refuse to exist in this world... to deny what will likely be the breakthrough of my life when it is within arm's reach. I am not going for answers or in expectation that a month in Paris/France/Europe will resolve everything I desire. I am going because I choose to live my PL and no longer simply dream about it while resigning myself to a "half-life." 

And this brings me back to my dream of the horse. When I thought about it the few days that followed, I realized that the horse and I are one but initially, I was treating the two as separate. And she/I was in danger...those people would surely have ruined her if she/I let them. And maybe those people in that initial scene are critics in my own life... people who think chasing my PL is silly. Over time, criticism from others and denial by oneself an surely kill a person's dreams/PL, just as I could potentially allow such to kill mine (the horse).

I was able to fly in this dream purely because I wanted to... I willed it to happen. When I believed in myself, I could fly but was only hovering at first. The river represents one of my greatest fears... water. In order to cross that and fly high and fast to beautiful places, I had to realize my oneness with the horse (me living out my PL). As instantly as I acknowledged our oneness, I could fly and found only beautiful places. I don't know... my dream analysis surely needs work. But that dream is so symbolic and I think I do get it, completely. I am that strong horse and I can fly. Realizing my PL only requires repeating that statement with increasing confidence. And when I utter those words, I am saying to myself and the world: "I am a writer and I am going to Paris!!!"

The rest is up to the universe to unfold in due time. And just as with my dream, I know that in pursuing my PL, I will be continually surprised but will always find life beautiful. 

Nostalgia

(noun) a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations. - Oxford American Dictionaries

The past two or three years have brought about bouts of nostalgia that I never previously knew. It seems that most people become increasingly nostalgic as they get older. This seems natural, given that as we get older we have accumulated more experience and those experiences create layers which form our identity, our behavior, and our perspective. I never thought that I was very prone to nostalgia, as I really do not look at my past as some kind of ideal, nor do I wish to change anything of the past. Even my most seemingly disastrous choices and failings seem to be fundamental to who I am now and I wouldn't change that at all. I feel pretty grounded in the present, with an eye to the near future and fulfilling dreams and goals, as loose as they may be. As lighthearted as my nostalgia for past events and phases of my life seem, nostalgia for love has become entirely different.

I remember having drinks with two of my sisters about two years ago. Interestingly, it is one of those moments in which I remember the exact bar, table, positions we were sitting in, the weather, etc. I had been divorced for a couple of years and had just ended another serious relationship. My sisters were both fresh out of their latest relationships and we sat and commiserated. My sisters told me that I had this uncanny ability to so easily move on, especially where relationships were concerned. They both admitted to feeling helpless and miserable, whereas I seemed so resilient and accepting. Two years later...just a few months ago...one of them told me that I had done a complete reversal since that conversation and that I now appear to struggle more with letting go and this seems singular to relationships. And not just any relationships, but those serious loves. This observation (and one I readily agree with) makes me wonder just what has happened to me. What evolution has taken place to cause what seems to be an emerging sentimentality within me? I don't see it as a negative trait, but I feel it very accutely and wonder how it has emerged. I still feel incredibly resilient with other life events and struggles. But love has taken hold of me in a peculiar way.

I guess I've come to look at it as such: once you feel something deeply, that ability to feel to that depth remains with us forever. We know that we once felt something so powerful and so unnusual. And sometimes when we feel numb or perhaps when our lives become rather stagnant for sometime, we crave that depth of feeling. And where do we feel that more than with love?