Holy tin can, Batman! This week will undoubtedly go down as one of the craziest on the books... and that is saying a whole mouthful considering my track record! In a nutshell: We moved out of our 2 bedroom townhome and back into our travel trailer. Sounds simple enough, but here's how it went down...
Exactly 30 days ago, Sarah and I were driving home from Nashville licking our wounds over a disaster of an art show, but remaining so grateful for the connections made along the way and the possibilities which lie ahead. We had plenty of time to discuss matters on either side of our detour to Muscle Shoals, AL, and somewhere between the nostalgia of the road, the hallowed ground of Muscle Shoals Sounds, and the rollercoaster of events and north Alabama topography... we made a decision to commit to the art and the process by which it arrives. We set our sights on June. We said the best way for us to facilitate a more natural path for this flux of creative opportunity is to eliminate as much overhead as possible and become mobile... make some practical adjustments... start taking a look at that damn travel trailer with the "FOR SALE" sign on it and start accepting the reason it hasn't sold yet. We said we would take our time, sell our things, ease into more shows, get comfortable with the idea of leaving the concrete slab we'd had under our feet for the last 5 years.... we said we'd talk about it more and come up with a solid plan. We said we would pray about it... .meditate on it... find peace with it. Then we said we each knew, and had for a long time, that this was the right thing for us to do but that it had been a process to arrive in a place where we could discuss it candidly. We said there had been resistance because, for our own reasons, we weren't entirely ready to leave the comfort of our respective zones. We said "but we know life really does begin outside our comfort zone". We said, during our eight hour conversation, more than a few times... that we felt, intrinsically, a massive change was on the horizon and were well aware the process was never going to be easy, but would always be necessary. We knew we wanted to keep evolving as people... as artists... as the forces of nature we are and spiritual conduits for which we were constructed. We teetered between euphoria and terror, but we never took back what we'd said..... because sometimes you just know that you know..... and sometimes.... it's just time.
SO... less than one month later, I am up at 4am, making coffee in our little tin can house in the woods. We have succeeded in selling many of our material possessions, and have discovered through this process that we never really possessed them after all... but that they sure as hell had possessed us. As a result, we are happy to be exorcising the demons. Sarah and I are no stranger to this sort of purging. We have done this before. We once sold everything we owned, moved into a tent, bought a travel trailer, and traveled around the country like a couple of gypsies. But the contrast between then and now is almost indescribable. That was the better part of a decade ago. We are wholly different people now. We are whole people now. Together, back then, we were one. Together, today, we are two. There is much more strength in numbers.
I suppose I can't fully speak for Sarah, but I can say it is such a joy to watch her finally able to take time for herself. Spiritually speaking, it means everything to her... even if she doesn't grasp it yet. She quit her job this week. She has been realistic about the fact that it will take time for her to adjust, but because of her willingness to stay honest and open-minded, every tentative step she takes literally carries her beyond the horizon. Though I have longed for this moment, I am still grateful for the job Sarah kept for the last 6 years. The people she worked for are great people. The paycheck she brought home provided us a reliable vehicle for the journey in which we are about to embark. She was able to make the money she made and receive the promotions she received because of her outstanding ability and commitment to the work she did. She was good at her job. So good that it became her and she it. She suffered in the wake of identifying so strongly with what she did for a living. Ironic we call it that: "making a living". Because living isn't something we are doing much when we are working ourselves to death. Whatever the reasons she maintained such a pace, mostly unselfish, I'm sure they are valid, but she doesn't have them anymore. And I am most grateful for that. Yesterday we took a truck load of artwork to a few different galleries, and along with establishing some amazing connections with the wonderful women running those galleries, we also established working relationships and a couple of accounts which will be profitable and manageable for us as we depart from here and proceed to do most of our business from campgrounds across the U.S. We'd been wheeling and dealing for quite a while when, Sarah, eager to assist however she could, looked at the clock and said, "Holy crap! It's already 4pm!"... to which I responded, "Welcome to your new job.... where time flies, souls are fed, fun is had, and dinner is a tax write-off!" I swear, she was speechless. But the stars in her eyes indicated a shift in consciousness which almost brings me tears as I recall it. That moment when one realizes that we do not have to suffer to be successful. That we do not have to perpetuate pain in order to prosper. And that "making a living" is actually the exact antithesis of making a life. Welcome to it, my dear. :)
This is not to say that being an artist isn't hard work. Days like yesterday happen only after a few months... sometimes years... of trying other avenues, venturing down dark alleys and through hallways where every door is locked.... forcing you to climb through the window and onto the roof.... down the fire escape, through another dark alley, across an empty street, up five flights of stairs... only to knock on the correct door and when asked for the password for entry, realize it must have fallen out of your pocket whilst climbing through the window and onto the roof at the end of the hallway where every door is locked....or maybe it was that damn fire escape. Nonetheless, eventually, you recount your steps... you make your way back to your portal of opportunity, and you are granted entry. Just like that. Yesterday was one of those days, and I am so glad Sarah was present for it. These moments, whether good or bad.... difficult or easy... are so much better shared. And I was so happy for her to experience the reward of sowing into her own future... and how all the effort and energy and talent she puts in to THIS venture... can leave her with stars in her eyes rather than dark circles beneath them.
I'm not sure where this journey will lead us.... individually or collectively.... but I do know that wherever we end up, whatever is waiting there... will be nothing more that what we have created and surrendered to along the way. Wherever we end up, we will begin again.
Maine-ly Amazing... (Pt. 1)
Day 1: (September 6, 2012)
There is hardly a way to explain the
beauty of this place. I went to sleep
last night to the sound of silence…. quieter than I’ve ever heard it. Almost concave… as if the world fell into a
giant sink hole specifically so I could get some rest.
I slept better than I have in a good while on an old squeaky mattress
with no sheets and an 80’s model comforter.
I am in awe of this experience, thus far. I don’t know what heaven is like, but I have come
to believe that if I live a good life, love divinely, and tread lightly on this
planet…. I will go to Maine when I die.
As I have settled comfortably into an Adirondack chair here on this
slightly dilapidated deck overlooking a small clearing in an otherwise dense
forest of spruce trees, I am almost brought to tears by the gratitude and
inspiration welling up inside of me. It
is 7am, and I hear crickets, and now and again, the faint sound of a diesel
engine most likely propelling one of those beautiful little lobster boats
through Penobscot bay. The fact that
everything looks old and is a tad rundown seems apropos as just yesterday while
driving along US 1, I made the comment, “Maine sure has a way of making old
things look so new.” And it’s true. This part of the United States can make you
feel a little guilty for living like most humans do…. with central air-conditioning
in high rise condo buildings, microwaves, designer bags, and automatic V-8
engines…. Piling dumpsters full of trash out by the curb for someone else to
haul off, going to the grocery store three times a day just because we can….
wasting water... and resources…… and time….. on things that don’t matter. The people here on Isle au Haut live their lives deliberately. They have no choice if they want to survive, but they seem to revel in the work it takes to sustain simple daily operations in such a remote paradise, and it’s a safe bet that most of them also believe life is a journey… not a destination.
While standing at the dock in
Stonington yesterday waiting for the ferry, we met Nancy, Sue, and a few other Isle
au Haut locals. Nancy is a retired R.N. and an artist who
did her best to try to find free parking for our rental car, stating unequivocally,
“You kids need to spend your money on what you want to spend it on…. Not
parking!” Ha! I love it.
And I couldn’t agree more.
Unfortunately, though we tried thoroughly to find the recommended off-street
parking, our venture availed us nothing so we circled back to the dock and paid
to park. A little later, Nancy offered to loan us her kayaks
during our stay….Another very kind gesture, and an offer which Sarah and I received
with great privilege. We talked about fishing and lobstering, and,
of course, we talked about our dogs.
Nancy and her husband Bill have a Golden Doodle named Moxie, and legend
has it that Moxie is the craziest of the island dogs. Well, that’s what Nancy says, anyway. I can’t help but think of our own golden retriever, Sailor, and the 5
years it took for him to quit embarrassing us everywhere we went.
Moxie’s 2 yrs. old. This ought to be good.
Sue is a retired EMT, a General Store
Employee, the Town Registrar, Chairman of the school board ( I should mention,
there are 5 children who attend school on Isle au Haut: 4 boys and 1 girl.),
and a few other things she rattled off so quickly I couldn’t keep up. The two women were more than welcoming and
went out of their way to make us comfortable.
My hair is fuscia. No one batted
an eye. I knew immediately I was going
to fall in love with this place. 
We watched as the captain and
dockhand loaded food, supplies, a new set of tires for someone’s island
vehicle, some new washer blades for another, a pallet of stock for the general
store, and a small stack of lumber. Then
we boarded the mail boat, found a place to sit amongst the inventory, and
settled in for what would turn out to be one of the most majestic boat rides I’ve
experienced to date…. And I’ve been on a
few boat rides. 
As we shoved off the dock at
Stonington, Sue enthusiastically beckoned, “Look! A seal!”
And sure enough, off the port side stern, there emerged a tiny, round
head, followed by the arc of a shiny rubber body, then the gentle splash of lazy
tail flippers…. Frolicking in and out of
the gauntlet of lobster buoys and moorings as if they were its own personal playground. Then as quickly as the seal appeared, it
disappeared. 
As we crossed the bay, our captain
also navigated the tiny spans between the littering of lobster buoys; brightly
colored and creatively incomparable to one another. Along the way, we saw things our eyes had
never before beheld. These are the
moments which remind us just how alive we really are. This is why traveling to places we’ve never
been is so essential to our souls. My
imagination runs wild with images of the first settlers, the first lighthouse
keepers, the first lobster boat captains, and the first homes atop granite cliffs. Back then, life was nothing if not deliberate
. These things were not a luxury but a necessity, and it’s always so romantic to me to imagine the centuries old
footsteps I’m standing in. I truly am in
love with so many people I’ve never met.
As we entered the thoroughfare to Isle au
Haut, Nancy and Sue assumed tour guide status.
Nancy, with enthusiasm which seemed to spring only from a place of deep
gratitude, revealed her amazing house atop the lush green landscape rising from
the water’s edge like a tidal wave of vegetation. Sue kept us informed as we passed the church
and the general store, and proudly pointed out her husband when we arrived at
the Town Landing. As we approached the
dock, Nancy showed Sarah and me her boat, which was moored in the middle of the
thoroughfare waiting patiently for her captain and whomever else may want to
enjoy her. Our hearts were full as we stepped
from the gently rocking boat onto the soft sway of the floating dock, and
ultimately… upon this fantastic piece of God’s real estate.
As we disembarked and dragged our
supplies and luggage up the ramp toward the main dock, there were people everywhere.
The surface of the ramp was made of a tightly corrugated aluminum which made a
noise like a single-engine airplane as we pulled our rolling suitcases across
it. It felt about as offensive as a curse
word in church. As I approached the top, I had an urge to
announce, “We’re here! The party can
start!” It is written that there are
only about 50 year round residents on Isle au Haut, and I’m pretty sure most of
the them were at the dock this day waiting for the mail boat. As we
stepped onto the town landing, I realized we had no idea who we were looking
for. As is typically the case when this
happens, I reached for my cell phone and the contact number from which I could
retrieve pertinent information, but I soon learned that just because we didn’t know
who we were looking for didn’t mean there wasn’t someone looking for us. Not to mention, I had no cell service anyway…
which would turn out to be a blessed, blessed thing. So out of the bustling crowd of islanders and
tightly situated vehicles emerged Jeff, the father of Peter Burke, whom had
been my contact up to this point. He reached out, shook my hand and said,
“Hello! I’m Jeff. You must be Sara!” And as he turned to Sarah Mae, he continued
with a smile and slight chuckle, “And you must be the other Sarah! Welcome to Isle au Haut!” We had been found.
Jeff offered to help load our bags
into the back of his old Isuzu Land Rover. As the three of us began to walk toward his
vehicle, there arose a clatter to our right.
We looked up, and without the slightest bit of uncertainty, shouted,
“Moxie!” For there was no mistaking this
K-9 commotion. Moxie was big. Bigger than I imagined. Partly due to the fluffy mane of semi-curled
hair hanging from him like feathers on a poodle. He was standing, or rather dancing, in the
back of a little red Ford pickup, which I assumed belonged to Nancy’s husband,
Bill. Sue had gone over to say hello to
Moxie, and though I was still able to identify her by the clothes she was
wearing……….. from the shoulders up, she had been eclipsed by a wildly
enthusiastic “hug” from Moxie. Bill and
Nancy’s crazy fur kid was now standing on his hind legs with his forepaws
around Sue’s neck. The scene was all too
familiar to us, and by this time, we were laughing hysterically. After Sue had received a proper greeting from
Moxie, Sarah and I went over to say hello.
Moxie was a tad calmer this time, but not by much. He tried to jump out of the truck once, and
eventually attempted to give us each the same type of “ hug” he’d given Sue,
but because we had left Jeff to do all the work loading our things, we bid our farewells
to Moxie and rushed off to help him with the last of it.
As I passed by the front of the
Land Rover, I couldn’t help but notice the hood ornament, and it would be a
safe bet neither could anyone else. It
was a wooden moose head made from 2x4’s… complete with a full rack of
antlers. I wasted no time telling Jeff
how I admired his handy work as I grabbed the last liter of water and tossed it
atop the heap in the back of the SUV. Once
we were all loaded up, Sarah called shotgun, and I jumped in the back with
Jeff’s dog… an adorable little black lab mix. I
shut the door, and looked over at my seatmate.
He was looking right at me, tail wagging passionately, and I responded, “Good to meet you, too!” We reversed
up the steep entrance to the dock and into the parking area. As Jeff, stepped on the clutch to shift into
1st gear… the whole vehicle
shook and sputtered. This seemed of no
concern to Jeff so I figured I wouldn’t worry about it either. As he gave the old Land Rover some throttle,
it perked right up and carried us to the main island road where we turned left
and headed into “town”.
Jeff announced he was going to give
us a tour. We drove approximately one
block when we arrived at the first stop…. A little shack down near the water
called the Shore Shop. “They just opened
up this year.” Jeff said. “She sells wares from the islanders… a lot of
the people on the island are artists and authors. You can find some of their stuff in
there.” He continued, “Also, this is
where you’ll find your lobster. If you
let them know how much you’ll be needing, you can stop back by around 4pm to
pick it up.” Good to know.
We proceeded roughly another half a
block to the library….. also on the left side of the road and waterfront, where
we received another very informative quip from Jeff, “This here is the
library. I just wanted to show ya in
case you like hangin’ out at the library…… OH!
And they have volleyball on Thursdays!”
I refrained from asking how what he’d just said made any sense, and came
to my own conclusion that they must be maximizing limited facilities by
combining certain community resources. Whatever
the case, I like it. There should ALWAYS
be volleyball at the library.
We proceeded past the post office…
a small, plain white building not much bigger than an outhouse. “There is the post office on your
left….” Jeff said, pausing for the time it
took to roll nearer to the general store, “and this is the general store. It’s open a couple hours a day. This is where you can get more water, food,
etc. if you run out.” And as we would
find out later, when he said a couple hours a day, he meant it. To be precise, 1pm-3m were business
hours. You snooze (or hike up and over a
mountain)… you lose.
We drove a little further as we
came to the fifth and final stop on the tour.
Rising from the road was a narrow
boardwalk, leading to a beautiful, little white chapel with a steeple which
seemed taller than the building itself.
It was breathtaking and so symbolic.
The boardwalk cut a clear path between the shadowy spruces and patches
of lime green cascades. Looking upward
at the steeple as it seemed to puncture the blanket of blue sky above it, I waited
in anticipation for liquid gold to render that tiny pinhole a gushing torrent. This whole scene made all the sense in the
world to me. I don’t go to church much,
but for some reason…. I really liked this one. Probably because it didn't seem tainted by humans... like it was not constructed for money or power but for sanctuary.
As Jeff let off the brake and began to roll toward our next stop, he
simply stated, “…and up there, that’s the church.” I thought that was probably just the right
amount of words.
The Isle au Haut town tour had
taken us approximately 3.5 minutes from start to finish. We turned around, and recounted all of our
stops on our way back through town… which tore through another 30 seconds of
our time. Jeff took us to the cabin, and
on the way told us he is the lighthouse keeper… or, at least, he owns the inn
which was once the keeper’s house. We
would later learn the lighthouse has been deeded to the state (or something which is none of our business). I
pulled out a map I’d printed off the internet (of course I came prepared) , but
he gave us a map he’d picked up at the rangers station, and explained the
hiking trails.
As Jeff gave us a play by play of
each hiking trail on the island, we were riveted. He sat at our little kitchen table literally
acting out what it might be like for us to embark on the many adventures which
lay ahead. When Jeff left for home, it
was almost 6pm, and though we were tempted to grab our packs and get started.... we decided instead to rest our bones and
dream out loud about the amazing experiences awaiting us.
Sarah is awake now, and after she consumes enough coffee to
release her face from its typical morning scrunch, we will get dressed, go to
the bike rack, and find a bike which functions well enough to carry us around
the side of the island to Acadia National Park and the Duck Harbor Mountain
trailhead. Today is going to be a big
day.
It's Work, But Not a J.O.B.
Making a living doing art can be a severely paradoxical journey. On one hand, it's an amazing opportunity, but on the other, it can be grueling. I know I'm so fortunate to do what I do, but here's what I also know. Artists are some of the most hard-working, courageous, humble, tenacious, intelligent, and fragile people I know. Going to an art show is like walking thru the street and watching pieces of yourself split off in every direction and land in the form of another walking, talking human under the shelter of a big white tent... on a day like any other day... a day which feels as though it could make you or break you, but you've vowed to let it do neither. Patrons will have the pleasure of seeing the person who created all these wonderfully inspiring works of art...happy, grateful, available.... but a fellow artist has the privilege of seeing a completely exhausted, sometimes fearful, often times deflated, always vulnerable, most times still grateful, bare-souled, uniquely beautiful, oddly relatable vessel of creativity.... still believing with every fiber of his or her being that this is purposeful work. We are borderline delusional when our backs are against a wall... we melt down and stand frozen, and second guess every move we make as we watch our souls become a game ball in the world cup of price wars. We know we are here for a reason, and we know we aren't asking too much, yet that which we have considered a priceless endeavor is scoffed at in regards to the tiny number in the top right corner. And then, the inevitable....we are asked to sell ourselves short. And sometimes we do it...while we wilt inside knowing we've just given a piece of our soul to someone who is clearly incapable of giving it the respect it deserves. Then, with abandon, we turn our focus to what we can do for the world. Devising new ways to heal it.... trusting that this experience is part of that....no matter how uncomfortable it may seem.. And we go down the road with more hope than we came with. So far.
Give It Legs...
I woke up this morning reflecting upon my time in active addiction, and the process which led me to surrender to the possibility of something different. I seem to always do that this time of the year having just celebrated another "birthday" in sobriety. On January 31, 2011, I got sober. I finally conceded to my innermost self that I was/am an alcoholic and my life had become unmanageable. I had been stalled out, wheels spinning, halfway through that process for many years before the day finally came. See, I knew from the first time I took a drink that there was a chance I may be an addict. I was certainly compulsive, and I was certainly gaining relief... and I most certainly could not wait until the next time I could numb myself out with whatever chemicals I could get my hands on ...so with what little bit of knowledge I had about alcoholism and drug abuse (my grandmother is in recovery, and i occasionally attended meetings with her as a kid)..... I figured maybe i fit the bill. BUT I didn't care. Not even one bit. Because in the early stages of my disease, the chemicals worked. They worked for what ailed me.... like medicine for a heartache... like ointment for a gaping emotional wound. And I used them just in that way. They worked when I was depressed and couldn't bear the weight of the world. They worked when I was happy and waiting for the other shoe to drop. They worked when I felt judged and unloved....when I found out I couldn't pray the gay away. They worked when my past caught up with me..... day after day. They worked when i didn't want to deal with the path of destruction I'd created as a result of my addiction. As a matter of fact, they never stopped working. I was always able to achieve the desired effects produced by alcohol and drugs, but the time got shorter between the high and the low. Toward the end, I spent most of my time chasing that feeling (or lack thereof) which once would come to stay for an entire evening. For now it would only visit in brief moments throughout the night, and each time it would abandon me again, the fall was harder. I knew how to find it, but I literally always wondered if it would be the last time. There is nothing worse than trying to focus in on reality when you've created so many of them. I chased and chased and was eluded each time.
Now that I'm sober, i can see clearly where some things began to turn for the worse. When i was in 8th grade, we moved to a bigger school. Mom and dad thought it would provide more opportunity for my brother and I, and boy did it, although, I'm convinced the trajectory of my life would have been the same no matter what town i lived in or which school i attended. When i arrived, i felt an intense need to fit in. Essentially i had transitioned from big fish to minnow in a matter of minutes... or at least, that's how it felt. When basketball season commenced and everyone figured out i could dribble and shoot a round leather ball a little better than most, i had no shortage of 'friends'. And though i could hide behind my athletic talent, i NEVER felt like i fit ANYWHERE. I always knew i felt most comfortable with the "outcasts", but by this time, there were certain things expected of me, and hanging around "goth kids", or "band geeks", or the smart kids even, were certainly not acceptable. So, i suppose i did what most kids do when they are confused and scared.... i acted accordingly. This included behaviors such as forsaking who I was in order to allow people to be discriminated against in my presence and/or not standing up for their rights. Because, after all, they were my rights, too.. I was just so terrified that someone might find out. I was so terrified that someone might find out i was "different" too that I literally shunned myself to avoid the fray. Oh, the irony...
I remember trying a few different tactics throughout those years in an attempt to salvage some part of who i was. It usually materialized in the form of wearing baggy clothes or not fixing my hair... or some other type of completely unrelated rage against the machine. I was a kid, and i didn't know how to articulate my feelings so naturally, i began "acting out". I was rude to my teachers. I was an asshole to my classmates. Like taking a jackhammer to the foundation of who i really was. It was the best and worst of times, and to some extent, i think everyone goes through it. I just had this weird set of circumstances where i was gifted and talented and pretty and some of my relatives were teachers, and i could easily hide behind all of those things. I could wear them like armor into battle against myself. I grew to resent all of them at one point or another while simultaneously shuttering at the pain I stood to suffer without them. I remember when i would dress like a boy or not fix my hair or wear make up... my friends would beg me to let them make me over. "But you're so pretty." "So and so has a crush on you, don't you wanna look hot." Um, no. The answer was no, but I got the makeover anyway. In retrospect, i think everyone was just trying to help, but on my end, the message was always the same.... you are not okay the way you are. And so...eventually i conformed. Which prompted an immediate and rapid spiral into the abyss. To conform is to spit in the face of who i am. To conform was, is, and always will amount to imprisonment for me. I can say now... looking back on all the times in my life when i allowed it... if i should ever allow it again, i sincerely hope i stop breathing soon after. Because i will be dead already. I've sold out more times than I'd like to admit, and it is a complete disservice. It doesn't serve me and most of all, it doesn't serve the greater good of humanity. It's not about rebellion. It's about never compromising the divinely unique purpose within.
This reminds me of a poem i wrote in Mexican History class at Oklahoma State. Most of my college notebooks are full of material unrelated to education... of the collegiate variety, anyway:
I should preface this poem by creating an image of the notebook page itself. In the top right corner it reads, "10:15 am, Thursday, 9-21-00, Thinkin'....). In the middle of margin at the top of the page I drew a giant arrow pointing downward toward the poem below and above it, it simple says, "Me."
Then the words:
Only the lonely are lost in this crowd,
And only the silent are screaming aloud,
For all who are higher are living below,
the platform of morals that humble men know.
But wandering still in such vacant disguise,
Are those who have chosen their spirit's demise,
And all for what reason has life welcomed death?
If only for loneliness breath after breath..
In search of companionship, comrades.... or foes,
No matter the company, solitude grows.
So now our society's kings have conferred.
That only the lonely can "choose" to be heard.
Yet many a man will expire alone,
Dispersing the heartache which once was his own.
And those who befriended his fortune and fame,
will soon not remember his soul or his name.
'Tis so superficial, this life we all lead,
Where money is power... and power is greed.
And all that we are is enveloped in wealth,
Now soon we'll be nothing in absence of health.
This poem is still one which speaks loudly to me each time i read it. I am so grateful i can look back on that time in my life and continue to learn the most valuable of lessons. TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. The people who mind don't matter, and the people who matter don't mind. And perhaps the most profound ... live in love. Because love... real love... doesn't need approval or money or fame or boyfriends or straight A's or face paint. Love is enough. And loving myself, though it took years to accomplish, is the only way to truly give it back. I have no capacity for it if i don't believe I am among the ones who truly deserve it. In sobriety, I've learned more about why i drank and more about how i eventually used and perpetuated the pain in my life to continue drinking... because there came a point when i didn't know how to exist any other way. Sobriety has allow me to compile these experiences into a reference book, and i can open this book any time it is needed without pain. I embrace them just as much as i have embraced the pleasant parts of this journey because someone else will need them someday. And i will be able to share them... just as someone once showed their own scars to me. And that is love at it's finest.
I could go on about love and shit all day, but it's time for me to go upstairs to the art studio and give it legs. :) Be back soon...
Now that I'm sober, i can see clearly where some things began to turn for the worse. When i was in 8th grade, we moved to a bigger school. Mom and dad thought it would provide more opportunity for my brother and I, and boy did it, although, I'm convinced the trajectory of my life would have been the same no matter what town i lived in or which school i attended. When i arrived, i felt an intense need to fit in. Essentially i had transitioned from big fish to minnow in a matter of minutes... or at least, that's how it felt. When basketball season commenced and everyone figured out i could dribble and shoot a round leather ball a little better than most, i had no shortage of 'friends'. And though i could hide behind my athletic talent, i NEVER felt like i fit ANYWHERE. I always knew i felt most comfortable with the "outcasts", but by this time, there were certain things expected of me, and hanging around "goth kids", or "band geeks", or the smart kids even, were certainly not acceptable. So, i suppose i did what most kids do when they are confused and scared.... i acted accordingly. This included behaviors such as forsaking who I was in order to allow people to be discriminated against in my presence and/or not standing up for their rights. Because, after all, they were my rights, too.. I was just so terrified that someone might find out. I was so terrified that someone might find out i was "different" too that I literally shunned myself to avoid the fray. Oh, the irony...
I remember trying a few different tactics throughout those years in an attempt to salvage some part of who i was. It usually materialized in the form of wearing baggy clothes or not fixing my hair... or some other type of completely unrelated rage against the machine. I was a kid, and i didn't know how to articulate my feelings so naturally, i began "acting out". I was rude to my teachers. I was an asshole to my classmates. Like taking a jackhammer to the foundation of who i really was. It was the best and worst of times, and to some extent, i think everyone goes through it. I just had this weird set of circumstances where i was gifted and talented and pretty and some of my relatives were teachers, and i could easily hide behind all of those things. I could wear them like armor into battle against myself. I grew to resent all of them at one point or another while simultaneously shuttering at the pain I stood to suffer without them. I remember when i would dress like a boy or not fix my hair or wear make up... my friends would beg me to let them make me over. "But you're so pretty." "So and so has a crush on you, don't you wanna look hot." Um, no. The answer was no, but I got the makeover anyway. In retrospect, i think everyone was just trying to help, but on my end, the message was always the same.... you are not okay the way you are. And so...eventually i conformed. Which prompted an immediate and rapid spiral into the abyss. To conform is to spit in the face of who i am. To conform was, is, and always will amount to imprisonment for me. I can say now... looking back on all the times in my life when i allowed it... if i should ever allow it again, i sincerely hope i stop breathing soon after. Because i will be dead already. I've sold out more times than I'd like to admit, and it is a complete disservice. It doesn't serve me and most of all, it doesn't serve the greater good of humanity. It's not about rebellion. It's about never compromising the divinely unique purpose within.
This reminds me of a poem i wrote in Mexican History class at Oklahoma State. Most of my college notebooks are full of material unrelated to education... of the collegiate variety, anyway:
I should preface this poem by creating an image of the notebook page itself. In the top right corner it reads, "10:15 am, Thursday, 9-21-00, Thinkin'....). In the middle of margin at the top of the page I drew a giant arrow pointing downward toward the poem below and above it, it simple says, "Me."
Then the words:
Only the lonely are lost in this crowd,
And only the silent are screaming aloud,
For all who are higher are living below,
the platform of morals that humble men know.
But wandering still in such vacant disguise,
Are those who have chosen their spirit's demise,
And all for what reason has life welcomed death?
If only for loneliness breath after breath..
In search of companionship, comrades.... or foes,
No matter the company, solitude grows.
So now our society's kings have conferred.
That only the lonely can "choose" to be heard.
Yet many a man will expire alone,
Dispersing the heartache which once was his own.
And those who befriended his fortune and fame,
will soon not remember his soul or his name.
'Tis so superficial, this life we all lead,
Where money is power... and power is greed.
And all that we are is enveloped in wealth,
Now soon we'll be nothing in absence of health.
This poem is still one which speaks loudly to me each time i read it. I am so grateful i can look back on that time in my life and continue to learn the most valuable of lessons. TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. The people who mind don't matter, and the people who matter don't mind. And perhaps the most profound ... live in love. Because love... real love... doesn't need approval or money or fame or boyfriends or straight A's or face paint. Love is enough. And loving myself, though it took years to accomplish, is the only way to truly give it back. I have no capacity for it if i don't believe I am among the ones who truly deserve it. In sobriety, I've learned more about why i drank and more about how i eventually used and perpetuated the pain in my life to continue drinking... because there came a point when i didn't know how to exist any other way. Sobriety has allow me to compile these experiences into a reference book, and i can open this book any time it is needed without pain. I embrace them just as much as i have embraced the pleasant parts of this journey because someone else will need them someday. And i will be able to share them... just as someone once showed their own scars to me. And that is love at it's finest.
I could go on about love and shit all day, but it's time for me to go upstairs to the art studio and give it legs. :) Be back soon...
How Do You Like Them Apples?
So here's what I've learned since my last blog post.... a lesson I will presumably relearn countless more times in my life. I know this because I've already learned and relearned it countless times before, and it only ever occurs to me that I've previously passed this test after I complete it, yet again. It is apparent; however, that I am accruing credits as I go, and the curriculum gets a little easier to comprehend each time. That said, graduation eludes me and it looks like i'll be a career student after all.... we can only hope. :)
Okay, so really.... here's what I've learned: [[[ Surrender and be free! ]]] I know. It's such a complex idea, isn't it? It's so complicated, it inevitably takes me days figure it out. But here's what else I've learned: When my universe is shifting toward a higher purpose, there is resistance. There always will be. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. It's called physics. (or fear or stress or a broken ankle or the flu... however you decide to label it) And because I understand this, I've learned to shift my perception to match.
Resistance is a natural part of our lives here. For example, if there was no resistance in the form of gravity we would all be able to fly around and do flips in the sky and float on a cloud, but so would our furniture and our clothes and the food on our dinner tables... and that would pretty much suck. So not only is it perfectly natural, it's also undoubtedly necessary. I've found that resistance in my own life is less about opposing forces (fear, stress, broken ankle, flu) and more about my unwillingness to cease fighting those things for whatever reason (i.e. i don't deserve it/I'm afraid to fail/etc).... and accept the gift that is my higher purpose. The circumstances and situations are not the problem. The problem is me. When the pain of staying the same becomes greater than the pain of changing, I become willing to receive it. That simple. When I stop relying on my mind and all the crazy shit it tells me (and by "shit", i mean just that) and start trusting the divine source within, it doesn't matter if I'm scared or sick or otherwise "inhibited" because those are temporary conditions. Are they real? I believe so. They are real to me. And I've concluded that it's okay for them to be real as long as I don't use them for self-pity or manipulative endeavors. Ultimately, though, I've come to rely on the permanent nature of love, and my faith has been my most reliable conduit. As a matter of fact, each time I learn and relearn this lesson, my faith increases... making the subsequent journey increasingly more comfortable.
There are always going to be moments of self-doubt, but a little while ago, I implemented a policy in my own life that I would never pretend I'm not afraid if I am, in fact, afraid... because the surest and quickest way to get to the good stuff is in the opposite direction of the ego. If I'm pretending to be something I'm not, my ego is in charge, and the ego eats terrified little girls for breakfast, literally. If I continue to feed it, it grows bigger. But if I simply pick up the phone and call a trusted friend and say, "I'm scared." Or get out my journal and write. Or meditate..... or create something... all of which are prayers manifested. Well, then... poof! My ego has lost it's greatest source of energy because I have consciously made a decision to move away from it.
All my life i sought relief for my constant state of fear. Today, I know that everything i ever needed, I had inside of me all along . And quite possibly, the best news of all is that today... i know where i keep it.
SO... this week, I made some choices... and this week I overcame some challenges. I am happy to report, I'm back on the side of love. And as predicted, I am more grateful than ever. My motivation has returned. I am channeling my inspiration, and there is certainly no shortage of beauty in my world... the very same world I was living in a few days ago, just a different point of view.
A friend sent me a quote today by Kurt Vonnegut, and it goes like this , "Go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art., no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something."
Holy crap, this resonates so deeply with me. Everyone is looking for salvation. There is no safe haven more reliable than the space inside each of us where creativity lives. The divine space. You don't have to search for your creative self. You just have to give it permission to come out and play. I am so grateful I know this. I am even more grateful I recognize it as a gift.
This week, my creativity came in the form of painting a kitchen wall, writing, cooking.... I haven't painted any pictures this week, but I am no longer concerned about that. It will come when I have done enough singing in the shower and dancing to the radio. It will come when it is entirely necessary for it to exist in this world. It will come when it comes, and not a second sooner.
I honestly couldn't tell you if it's true that the arts are a 'very human way of making life more bearable'. In my case, it's more of a divine way to make life more purposeful, but I will admit at times, it's been both. This week, the arts made my life more bearable. This week I really proved to myself that art is in everything and everyone AND everything and everyone is art... as if I didn't know that already. This week, I showed up for it like I would show up for an appointment with a therapist and I relied on it like an accountability partner when i didn't feel like showing up for anything at all. I truly believe we are all artists. Some would argue it's easy for me to make a statement like that considering i can paint pictures and make aesthetically pleasing things with my hands.... but here are some artforms i don't do (yet) which have moved me to tears more times than my own creativity... songwriting, dancing, raising children, taking care of a friend with special needs, helping out at the nursing home, building a house for a family in need.... it's art. All of it. Because art is something which stirs our soul And those things stir mine. So how do you like them apples? :)
Okay, so really.... here's what I've learned: [[[ Surrender and be free! ]]] I know. It's such a complex idea, isn't it? It's so complicated, it inevitably takes me days figure it out. But here's what else I've learned: When my universe is shifting toward a higher purpose, there is resistance. There always will be. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. It's called physics. (or fear or stress or a broken ankle or the flu... however you decide to label it) And because I understand this, I've learned to shift my perception to match.
Resistance is a natural part of our lives here. For example, if there was no resistance in the form of gravity we would all be able to fly around and do flips in the sky and float on a cloud, but so would our furniture and our clothes and the food on our dinner tables... and that would pretty much suck. So not only is it perfectly natural, it's also undoubtedly necessary. I've found that resistance in my own life is less about opposing forces (fear, stress, broken ankle, flu) and more about my unwillingness to cease fighting those things for whatever reason (i.e. i don't deserve it/I'm afraid to fail/etc).... and accept the gift that is my higher purpose. The circumstances and situations are not the problem. The problem is me. When the pain of staying the same becomes greater than the pain of changing, I become willing to receive it. That simple. When I stop relying on my mind and all the crazy shit it tells me (and by "shit", i mean just that) and start trusting the divine source within, it doesn't matter if I'm scared or sick or otherwise "inhibited" because those are temporary conditions. Are they real? I believe so. They are real to me. And I've concluded that it's okay for them to be real as long as I don't use them for self-pity or manipulative endeavors. Ultimately, though, I've come to rely on the permanent nature of love, and my faith has been my most reliable conduit. As a matter of fact, each time I learn and relearn this lesson, my faith increases... making the subsequent journey increasingly more comfortable.
There are always going to be moments of self-doubt, but a little while ago, I implemented a policy in my own life that I would never pretend I'm not afraid if I am, in fact, afraid... because the surest and quickest way to get to the good stuff is in the opposite direction of the ego. If I'm pretending to be something I'm not, my ego is in charge, and the ego eats terrified little girls for breakfast, literally. If I continue to feed it, it grows bigger. But if I simply pick up the phone and call a trusted friend and say, "I'm scared." Or get out my journal and write. Or meditate..... or create something... all of which are prayers manifested. Well, then... poof! My ego has lost it's greatest source of energy because I have consciously made a decision to move away from it.
All my life i sought relief for my constant state of fear. Today, I know that everything i ever needed, I had inside of me all along . And quite possibly, the best news of all is that today... i know where i keep it.
SO... this week, I made some choices... and this week I overcame some challenges. I am happy to report, I'm back on the side of love. And as predicted, I am more grateful than ever. My motivation has returned. I am channeling my inspiration, and there is certainly no shortage of beauty in my world... the very same world I was living in a few days ago, just a different point of view.
A friend sent me a quote today by Kurt Vonnegut, and it goes like this , "Go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art., no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something."
Holy crap, this resonates so deeply with me. Everyone is looking for salvation. There is no safe haven more reliable than the space inside each of us where creativity lives. The divine space. You don't have to search for your creative self. You just have to give it permission to come out and play. I am so grateful I know this. I am even more grateful I recognize it as a gift.
This week, my creativity came in the form of painting a kitchen wall, writing, cooking.... I haven't painted any pictures this week, but I am no longer concerned about that. It will come when I have done enough singing in the shower and dancing to the radio. It will come when it is entirely necessary for it to exist in this world. It will come when it comes, and not a second sooner.
I honestly couldn't tell you if it's true that the arts are a 'very human way of making life more bearable'. In my case, it's more of a divine way to make life more purposeful, but I will admit at times, it's been both. This week, the arts made my life more bearable. This week I really proved to myself that art is in everything and everyone AND everything and everyone is art... as if I didn't know that already. This week, I showed up for it like I would show up for an appointment with a therapist and I relied on it like an accountability partner when i didn't feel like showing up for anything at all. I truly believe we are all artists. Some would argue it's easy for me to make a statement like that considering i can paint pictures and make aesthetically pleasing things with my hands.... but here are some artforms i don't do (yet) which have moved me to tears more times than my own creativity... songwriting, dancing, raising children, taking care of a friend with special needs, helping out at the nursing home, building a house for a family in need.... it's art. All of it. Because art is something which stirs our soul And those things stir mine. So how do you like them apples? :)
The Big D and me.
I'm having a little trouble staying motivated lately. It happens. I'm not too awfully concerned, but this situation always leads to the brainstorming of new methods.... and new madness, frankly. Currently, I feel I've aquired plenty of inspiration, but since beginning this full-time gig as an artist, I've learned that inspiration and motivation are acutely separate in their applications. At times, the inspiration is so overwhelming that it just springs forth without effort, but most days, there is much discipline required to channel it.... most days my inspiration swirls in fragments around itself, and if I am not motivated to help it adhere to something, I'm screwed. This is precisely where the trouble lies for me today.
I suppose I'd say it's probably a human condition, in general. I suppose I'd also say that my mind is not typically ensnared with the chaos of unbridled thoughts and/or preoccupied with the dramatic variety often anymore. SO... when it occurs, I am easily overwhelmed. Right now, I am simply writing it out. It is the only possible way for me to find balance or clarity when all else fails.
In the last few days, there has been an ever-so-subtle game of tug o'war between myself and a little affliction most commonly known as depression. I try to view it mostly as an 'opportunity' these days, but it wasn't always like that. I've struggled with serotonin and dopamine deficiencies since I was in my teens. For a lot of years, I just assumed it was normal.... that everyone had to go through it... that I was always going to have to fight for my life in one way or another.
Depression almost claimed me more times than I'd like to admit, but when I got sober, I discovered some ways to manage it....without self-medication and without prescribed medication. Though I am grateful to remain unmedicated, I am aware it is nothing short of a miracle and believe that medication can and should be sought under the care of a professional if needed. So once I stopped self-medicating, I eventually began to learn that EVERYTHING I put into my body counts for something. EVERYTHING. Ceasing to consume massive amounts depressants certainly cured a few of my ills, but long term, I have really learned to listen to my body, my soul... my divine source. I quit smoking a year after I quit drinking. In the last year or so, I have diligently monitored the foods I eat, and now the routine is pretty streamlined. SO... when the depression comes knocking, I can usually narrow it down.
In the last few days, I have tried to work my way back to a healthy diet. This process is never as easy as I want it to be. Because depression is such a powerful foe, it takes some time to muster the bravery to go forth. Even though I know that ALL things in this life are temporary, and NOTHING is outside the realm of possibility if I simply choose the perception which best serves my chances of staying healthy.... it is, each and every time, as terrifying as the last. And there is a process, each time, through which I discover the power of faith and gratitude like I've never known it. But first, I must face the fear. The fear that "I will always wake up with a hopeless feeling in the depths of my gut". The fear that "everything really is for nothing and what once felt like a life of great purpose was just a good story I told myself". The fear that "love really is an illusion, and only the fittest will survive... and I'm unfit... yada yada. ". all the untruths.
Again, it may sound severe, but the truth is..... it IS. It is a very severe condition. It is a, often times, fatal illness. But it is also a part of my existence here on this planet, and I have learned to embrace it rather than conceal it. I heard it described recently by David Letterman (of all people) as "you get on an elevator and the bottom drops out. You can't stand looking at the sunlight. You can't wait to get back in bed at night...... it's a sinkhole. And people who have gone through it know exactly what I'm talking about." When I heard him say these things, there was no question he'd been where I've been.... and so many others have been. So what? We deal with some plummeting chemical levels in our brains from time to time. Is there really any shame in this? Nope... not any more than we would be ashamed if we had a tumor the size of grapefruit in our heads.
This is the often untold reality of depression. There is a terrible stigma attached to mental illness which all too often prevents us from talking about it enough to find solutions. Depression does not discriminate, and it brings it's A-game EVERY. SINGLE. TIME., and though I think I know what to expect by now, it shakes me to my core without fail. If not only for a split second, there is inevitably the crippling fear that "it's here to stay this time, and I will always feel this way." BUT, I possess much more knowledge than I once did.... spiritually speaking. My intellect is no match, but the light inside of me is always on. I just have to remove the blanket from the lampshade (which is sometimes way more complex than it sounds). That blanket has many forms including the food I eat, the thoughts I allow, the people I surround myself with, the outlets I provide myself, the amount of time I spend in meditation each day.... one or the other... or all of them. But the common denominator is whether I'm allowing myself to live in fear.... or whether I will snatch that blanket from atop my love light and give myself the opportunities I deserve. Eventually, because I truly believe, at center of myself, that my life has purpose and love is real... that heavy quilt of fear will go up in flames anyway.
LOVE ONLY BURNS WITH THE UTMOST INTENSITY.
I suppose I'd say it's probably a human condition, in general. I suppose I'd also say that my mind is not typically ensnared with the chaos of unbridled thoughts and/or preoccupied with the dramatic variety often anymore. SO... when it occurs, I am easily overwhelmed. Right now, I am simply writing it out. It is the only possible way for me to find balance or clarity when all else fails.
In the last few days, there has been an ever-so-subtle game of tug o'war between myself and a little affliction most commonly known as depression. I try to view it mostly as an 'opportunity' these days, but it wasn't always like that. I've struggled with serotonin and dopamine deficiencies since I was in my teens. For a lot of years, I just assumed it was normal.... that everyone had to go through it... that I was always going to have to fight for my life in one way or another.
Depression almost claimed me more times than I'd like to admit, but when I got sober, I discovered some ways to manage it....without self-medication and without prescribed medication. Though I am grateful to remain unmedicated, I am aware it is nothing short of a miracle and believe that medication can and should be sought under the care of a professional if needed. So once I stopped self-medicating, I eventually began to learn that EVERYTHING I put into my body counts for something. EVERYTHING. Ceasing to consume massive amounts depressants certainly cured a few of my ills, but long term, I have really learned to listen to my body, my soul... my divine source. I quit smoking a year after I quit drinking. In the last year or so, I have diligently monitored the foods I eat, and now the routine is pretty streamlined. SO... when the depression comes knocking, I can usually narrow it down.
In the last few days, I have tried to work my way back to a healthy diet. This process is never as easy as I want it to be. Because depression is such a powerful foe, it takes some time to muster the bravery to go forth. Even though I know that ALL things in this life are temporary, and NOTHING is outside the realm of possibility if I simply choose the perception which best serves my chances of staying healthy.... it is, each and every time, as terrifying as the last. And there is a process, each time, through which I discover the power of faith and gratitude like I've never known it. But first, I must face the fear. The fear that "I will always wake up with a hopeless feeling in the depths of my gut". The fear that "everything really is for nothing and what once felt like a life of great purpose was just a good story I told myself". The fear that "love really is an illusion, and only the fittest will survive... and I'm unfit... yada yada. ". all the untruths.
Again, it may sound severe, but the truth is..... it IS. It is a very severe condition. It is a, often times, fatal illness. But it is also a part of my existence here on this planet, and I have learned to embrace it rather than conceal it. I heard it described recently by David Letterman (of all people) as "you get on an elevator and the bottom drops out. You can't stand looking at the sunlight. You can't wait to get back in bed at night...... it's a sinkhole. And people who have gone through it know exactly what I'm talking about." When I heard him say these things, there was no question he'd been where I've been.... and so many others have been. So what? We deal with some plummeting chemical levels in our brains from time to time. Is there really any shame in this? Nope... not any more than we would be ashamed if we had a tumor the size of grapefruit in our heads.
This is the often untold reality of depression. There is a terrible stigma attached to mental illness which all too often prevents us from talking about it enough to find solutions. Depression does not discriminate, and it brings it's A-game EVERY. SINGLE. TIME., and though I think I know what to expect by now, it shakes me to my core without fail. If not only for a split second, there is inevitably the crippling fear that "it's here to stay this time, and I will always feel this way." BUT, I possess much more knowledge than I once did.... spiritually speaking. My intellect is no match, but the light inside of me is always on. I just have to remove the blanket from the lampshade (which is sometimes way more complex than it sounds). That blanket has many forms including the food I eat, the thoughts I allow, the people I surround myself with, the outlets I provide myself, the amount of time I spend in meditation each day.... one or the other... or all of them. But the common denominator is whether I'm allowing myself to live in fear.... or whether I will snatch that blanket from atop my love light and give myself the opportunities I deserve. Eventually, because I truly believe, at center of myself, that my life has purpose and love is real... that heavy quilt of fear will go up in flames anyway.
LOVE ONLY BURNS WITH THE UTMOST INTENSITY.
Fear Take Flight So Love Can Land
Well, so much for my resolution to write more, but I assure
you , my excuse is as valid as the next.
In the last few months, the great honor of becoming a real live,
full-time, working artist has been bestowed upon me. … paycheck and all. I am so grateful for the opportunity to be
able to tap into this divine creative channel every day. It affords me a spacious vessel for growth and
a reliable vehicle for change. Not to mention, staying busy keeps a girl out of
trouble. BUT, I cried myself to sleep
last night, and lately I’ve been grappling with some things I am finding
difficult to accept. When I awoke this
morning… I knew I had offer it all up to the universe in its rawest form and
sacrifice it on the alter of my electronic journal. So here goes....
It all began when I was born. Ha! I’m
kidding, but no… seriously. That’s
pretty much where it all began, however,
I am a constantly evolving creature and have learned many things about
myself and the ones I love in this life… last night, my tears came to wash away the intense fear of
losing one of those people.
My dad has been sick for some years now. He has a heart condition called
cardiomyopathy. When he was first
diagnosed more than a decade ago, the doctors gave him less than a year to live. When my mom received the news, I was in the
throes of my addiction and unable to comprehend exactly what it all meant. But the part of the story where he was not
supposed to survive the year was withheld from me until not long ago. When I asked my mom why they didn’t
tell me the whole truth… she said it was because I was already slated to move
to Florida and they feared I wouldn’t go if I knew. AND they knew I needed to go. It was clear I was drowning, and they wanted
me to start swimming. These are good
parents… good humans. But to find out
years later what might have been was a jagged little pill and something I had
to forgive myself for… over and over. I don't blame them for not telling me. I completely understand. No regrets, but naturally, i wish I'd been in a place where I could have been more supportive, trustworthy, etc. Nonetheless, Dad's still here, and that alone will tell
you a little something about how our physical forms pale in comparison to the
truly amazing spirit living within us.
I'll never know if it was my self-centered denial or the fact
that Dad rarely complains and always chooses to discuss the positives over the
negatives… but it seems his quality of life has not been diminished much by his
disease…. until recently. That's not to say it hasn't been hard on him, but he always seems to find a way to make lemonade. Until recently, it seemed there were actually
aspects of his limitations he enjoyed to a certain extent. For instance, my dad is one of the hardest
working men I know. Up with the sun and
stay ‘til it’s done. On average, he
worked 12-16hr days for most of his life, and he preferred it this way. But when he got sick, he was forced to slow
down. Though I know this was an
adjustment for him, he seemed to settle into it, and enjoy the little things he’d
been moving too swiftly to notice in awhile .
Until recently, he seemed to be
excited about the future…. hopeful.
Until recently, he never mentioned his health or lack thereof. But in the last year or so, he’s had some
bumps in the road. Some days I call him
and he just sounds exhausted… mentally. He says things like, "If I I'm still around when..." or "if I don't kick the bucket first..." This
is far more painful to hear than any physical prognosis. I get
the feeling he is sick and tired of being sick and tired. And who in the world could blame him??? My brother says he’s given his heart to so
many people, and not many have returned the favor. I think he believes this has contributed to
the weakening of dad’s heart, and though he has indeed given more that he's received, I know dad doesn’t do nice things for folks because
he expects something in return. He does
them because it’s who he is at the core of his being. It hurts my brother to see people take
advantage of him, but I truly believe dad doesn’t see it that way. I believe his humanity is the reason he is
still with us. And his grandkids. Probably, mostly his grandkids. J
So… I’ve spent some time in denial about many of these
things. I really don’t want to believe
that my oldest and dearest friend is sick, and I sure as hell don’t want to
believe he’s tired. Sometime I guess it
just feels easier to believe him when he says he’s “doing just fine”. Truth is… he’s not really “fine”. Physically, he’s been sick a long time… and
even as I write this, I am breathless… as if I just heard the news for the
first time. Mentally and emotionally, he’s
beginning to bend, but we were made to bend, right? It’s just so difficult to watch someone you
love so much struggle. I just want him to be happy. I want him to have the care he needs. I want him to be able to accept his
limitations, and embrace life with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. And most of all, I don’t want him to suffer… not
for a second. I can see the
discouragement on his face and hear the frustration in his voice when he finds he
can’t do the things he once could although he masks it well with a , "Well, I'm not as young as I once was.." Hell, some days, walking to the
mailbox and back is a gauntlet of challenges for him.
Maybe… if I am absolute in my truth, it’s just downright tough to watch my parents grow older…to find out my dad really isn’t a superhero. That he just may be mortal after all, and that I’d better get in touch with this reality because I was made to bend, as well. Now more than ever, I must be diligent about my own issues because dad needs my best energy, and love cannot exist in the same space as fear. I have given myself permission to feel my feelings. I allow myself the freedom to express it... to cry about it. But when I spend time with Dad, either on the phone or in person, I do my best to encourage him to follow his heart…. No matter how ill-equipped he thinks it is. To take care of himself. To heal himself... if not physically... in every other way.
Maybe… if I am absolute in my truth, it’s just downright tough to watch my parents grow older…to find out my dad really isn’t a superhero. That he just may be mortal after all, and that I’d better get in touch with this reality because I was made to bend, as well. Now more than ever, I must be diligent about my own issues because dad needs my best energy, and love cannot exist in the same space as fear. I have given myself permission to feel my feelings. I allow myself the freedom to express it... to cry about it. But when I spend time with Dad, either on the phone or in person, I do my best to encourage him to follow his heart…. No matter how ill-equipped he thinks it is. To take care of himself. To heal himself... if not physically... in every other way.
I am so thankful for
the awareness that every precious moment is a gift. Today I
will stay in this moment. This one right
here. Today I will send love and light
to my Dad, and know that it is reaching him with whatever intensity he needs
now. I will pick up the phone and
encourage him. I will not beat myself up
for living 1000 miles away. I will
continue to follow my own heart because it is the only way for me to be 100%
available to the ones I love.
I can’t say that the gravity of this pain is any less
forceful having written a few paragraphs about it…. But I did not come to the
pages of this journal for a bandaid and a pat on the head. I simply want to open a door and walk through
it…experience the journey…trust the process.
I want to put new bandages on the wound… or let it breathe if need be. I want to honor myself and my loved ones by
living authentically. And sometimes, in
order to do that, I have to realize my fears, cradle them in my hands, and give
them permission to travel elsewhere... on the wings of words.
Fear take flight so love can land.
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