Because it Mattered

Ho boy. Where to start.

Let's go with a highlight from last week: my cousin and I went to a wedding. This particular individual is my choir/singing buddy, practically since birth. So Disney movie music was our main road trip soundtrack until I broke out Jonathan Coulton and shared another piece of geekiness close to my heart. Truly, there is nothing quite like singing about zombies with a close friend (who also happens to blend amazingly with your voice).

The little cabin tent we stayed in after the wedding had a heated bed, which, I must say, was extremely necessary come morning. I felt like a kid again, huddling in my cozy bed with blanket upon blanket stacked on top of me (with one leg sticking out for temperature control), yet my nose is still slowly turning into an ice cube. If I shift my head just one inch too far, suddenly my face meets freezing pillow case and I'm afraid my cheek will stick to it like a tongue to a icy pole.

Cause, you know, that makes sense. But my point is, it's COLD. During the winter when I lived in the woods, my parents would take turns getting up to stoke the fire in the wood stove; that stove, plus any space heaters, were the only sources of heat so my room was often a bit... nippy. Yet there is a wood nymph part of me that loves this. Bundling up against the harsh environment, the tough skin I developed in withstanding the cold. I miss autumn in the forest. I miss the way my cheeks and nose turn bright red from the frigid air while my head and neck stay swathed in a warm wool hat and scarf. Except when the wool starts getting all itchy and my neck and forehead start sweating. Sweaty skin and itchy wool is not a sexy combo.

My cousin and I were hoping for a hot cup of cocoa before retiring to our wood frame and canvas covered bedroom, but the bourbon wasn't a bad trade off. Warm fuzzies plus unstoppable giggle fits? I'll take it.

~

I've thought a lot about a lot of things lately. Not unusual, granted. I have a few interesting blog ideas (beyond just the “where's Tasia?” pontificating kind of thing) in the back of my mind, so you will get a taste or two in the near future. This won't be a surprise, but it hasn't been an easy couple weeks. Hell, it hasn't been an easy few months. I haven't been able to thoroughly process, incorporate, and accept all this roughness rubbing against the inner walls of my heart while I've been floating from house to house, couch to couch. Every part of my being has been extremely unsettled. I desperately want to just cry sometimes but finding a “space” to release the dam... that's been more complicated.

For whatever reality I'm in (rather than better or worse, cause it's always both at the same time), I have found a house to be, sleep, eat, and plan in for the next couple months while I get back on my feet. The aloneness hasn't been a problem, but loneliness has. I feel very distant and separated from the life I danced in just one or two months ago. My life three to six months ago feels even further away. This will ease in time, I know, but right now my heart hurts and daily I have to decide whether to accept that or not. Sometimes I do, and I can relax into the ache. “I'm a solid okay” or “I'm on the low end of alright” have become acceptable responses to “How are you?” because they're true. Things are kind of shitty. Sometimes the melancholy tugs my lungs deeper into an empty well, but I still find moments to laugh, feel joy and breathe. I still feel love when I sing every word of Be Prepared from Lion King by heart with good company. The meaningful relationships I tend while wearing pajamas and gardening gloves, as complicated and heavy hitting as they are, still grow.

It's kind of like saying “thank you” and “fuck you” in the same sentence and meaning them equally. I don't believe I have to forget my past in order to find joy; I believe finding joy because of my past is a worthier goal. Recently I heard someone say “we're not our stories,” but we are. That's not all we are, but the stories we choose matter. The story we live and the story we make up might be different because we are awfully good at lying to and fooling ourselves sometimes. If I'm not my story, I'm lying to myself. If I can't choose my story, I've fallen too in love with victimhood. The choice matters.

A friend asked me about my experience with break ups and heartbreak a day or two ago. I remember something I heard a long time ago that still sticks with me: “It hurts because it mattered.”

And thank god it does. Thank god it did.  

Update!

I apologize for the irregular posts for the last couple weeks! I'm moving (driving) around a bit more right now so finding stable (mentally, emotionally AND physically) spaces to write worthwhile posts has been challenging. I aim to post this weekend, so stay tuned. :)

Love,
Tasia

Wednesday morning

Strange days. Strange dreams. I've been holding my questions and frustrations tight to my belly like a load of laundry, be it dirty of freshly clean; sometimes it feels like a mixture of both. A few people have been witness to my juggling act and those same people have been incredibly generous in their support. Another few, equally small in number, hear about it because I've told them. Only one has heard me cry over the phone. I hate crying on the phone but that one person makes it okay. That person just let's the space be.

This won't be a long update. Today I struggle to find an appropriate balance between dealing with survival, processing, breathing and expressing all this openly and my chest clenches. Suffice to say that I'm alright, and I still remember how privileged I am to rely on the support of others at this time. I won't sugar coat this or philosophize with sweeping sentences; right now breathing is enough. Enjoying the company of others is enough. Writing chapters to a story is enough. Measured steps towards settling is enough. Not really being okay is enough, for now.  

Home and Belonging

If you suddenly didn't have a home, what would you miss about it?

I experienced an intense moment of melancholy and loneliness on my birthday last Friday; in the middle of the day, between leaving one friend's house and meeting another friend later in the afternoon, I had nowhere to “go” or “be.” The attachment I have with this startled me. Why is this so important? What's the meaning and importance of having a safe place to sleep or go “home” to. What does that really symbolize?

Lately I've been spending a lot of time hanging out at libraries, coffee shops, and parks. A lot of time. Depending on what I'm working on, job hunting, networking, art, etc, I end up setting up shop at different locations in between finding places to stay at night. Although this process, in the scheme of things, hasn't occurred for that long, I still feel increasingly weary. When our basic needs are uncertain, daily, exercising creativity and long term thinking/planning is... challenging.

I do recognize, even now, that I come from and exist in a position of incredible privilege. While I experience my own fair share of challenges, I could be in a much, much worse off position. I'm grateful that despite essentially being homeless right now, I am not starving, I've been able to find a place to stay every night, I have a very caring community at my back, and I have a lot of skill and abilities to offer.

Yet daily we meet our values; what they look like, how we judge our circumstances and make our choices. The “I do this” or “this is important to me” statements aren't always coupled with the “why” questions. I think they should be, even to simply understand ourselves.

As I began brainstorming why having “home space” was so important to me, several ideas eventually came to mind: having the choice to retreat to shelter as needed, isolation/safe place to recharge (introversion), somewhere I don't have to wear a bra (I am not a woman who can comfortably get away without one), knowing where things are, familiarity, smells (smells like home/me), in “my” space vs “other peoples'” space (being a guest vs being at home), the favor of others opening their home to me, infringing on other spaces, permanence, security, possession, the importance of mess and order.

The last one made me laugh a bit, but I think it's extremely valid. We get used to a certain kind of mess or order. The way we wash our dishes (or the frequency), where we leave our things. This actually, I think, goes hand in hand with the “knowing where things are” and familiarity. Tossing mail on the kitchen counter for a day or two versus going through it immediately versus letting it stack up over time. Obviously different behaviors are more or less... constructive, shall we say, but each one of us has grown up and even created our own “natural” ways of inhabiting an environment we're comfortable with. When we share space with someone, like having an apartment with roommates, or moving in with a significant other, we have to deal with someone else's living habits. This isn't anything new.

Engaging in those habits helps creates home. Really this is all about “belonging.” I can stay with a friend, but I don't belong there long term. This is the “I know where I am and how to act within this space. I know the boundaries and know my place within them” idea. You know one of the major things I miss having space for? Cooking. I can make meals here and there at the places I stay but certain food stuffs require more time and space. I saw some video of someone making homemade chocolate candies and I thought, “Oh man. I want to do that.”

I swear it isn't all about chocolate.

So what does “home” mean, evoke, symbolize? What does “belonging” mean? These are external centering points; that “home” feeling we experience when we are, well, home, is a type of groundedness. We relax into ourselves, not battling against a whole list of expectations and images of what we “should” be. If I had to sum up what home means to me, that would be it. A place where I can be without the pressures, internally or externally imposed, of what I “should” or “shouldn't” be.

Ironically, how often does a home not offer that? Yeah, in many ways, I feel very grateful and privileged. Home, safe space, place to belong; not all kids have that growing up.

The trick is this; can we, can I, find home internally?

Well, yes. That is a practice well worth attention, one that is incredibly beautiful and important, and one I have had to rely on a lot lately. Not always successfully, but I come back to it. I find home in people, too, as I've said before, but we can never put all our home into one or two people. The pressure to live up to that is exhausting.

So perhaps we have many homes, of varying importance for different reasons. Home in ourselves, we always take this with us. This allows me to be comfortable, to an extent, in many different environments, to have confidence in myself, to find power in myself. Then we find homes in people, our family, friends, partners, lovers, coworkers, communities. Then we have the physical representation, a symbol, really, of home. That place, or places we use as the primary hub, home base. Beyond that, maybe a city, a state, a country. Home radiates out from our skin in waves, reflecting what we most identify with and where we can most safely express ourselves.

And make chocolate. You know, priorities!  

Creating Space in Practice

I will fight for you but I will not chase you,

I will love you but I won't read your mind.

I want you to have room to love me on your terms

because you do it well and fully.

I want you to have room to receive the love I offer

because I know the difference when you touch me.

I want to be a safe haven for you but not the only one.

Likewise I will keep a precious space for me alone

and advocate for you to have your own.

I will give you more physical space

so I may have more emotional space in your life.

I wish you loose lips and the freedom

to tell me what you need and to kiss me.

I strive for continued loving communication with you

so we both might be crusaders for our dreams

protectors, challengers, teachers and partners

however we choose to define and live those terms.

The last handful of days have offered beautiful reminders of space and expansion. And where to find support I need. Goddamn, can't forget that one.

Sometimes the rug gets yanked out from under us but other times we're the ones who do the yanking. Space and compassion in the name of non-neediness, freedom, and trust. In all my decisions thus far, I'm surprised by the ease I feel, the groundedness. The clarity. There it is, the clarity.

There's a lesson I don't want to forget: uncertainty does not mean lack of clarity. Just as certainty does not equal clarity.

I have been the person who grips things and people too tightly, opting to fill time and space in hopes of feeling and gaining... something. If quality is suffering, my solution has been to sweep in quantity as quickly as possible. I'm that way with food, with intimacy. Those go hand in hand for those of us who struggle with eating disorders.

But I made a choice this time, a different choice, and I'm still reeling. The terror is there, the fear, the grasping for control. I see all this and accept it the best I can when those voices are loudest in their wailing. There is space, there is room, I hear you. I hear you, I hear you, I honor your voices. But there, too, is the clarity, the gratitude, and my surprise. My surprise that I am aware enough to have made that choice for a positive benefit. Loving benefit. My surprise that old patterns of co-dependency and neediness met a break in the road. One day at a time, one decision at a time. Changes happen in seconds and in breaths, and patterns build over thousands of breaths. Awareness in practice, not just in theory.

Holy shit.

“Letting go,” as the practice of loosening a vice-like grip, allows us to breathe again, to fill our lungs with something life-giving. Now, the implications of this have sent me into other states of panic as I continue trying to find work and places to sleep (and shower). But that's the other funny thing about loosening a grip. I allow access to deeper intimacy, to deeper vulnerability, other connections and greater support.

I'm never as alone as I think I am. Sometimes I like being alone. In fact, most times I crave it. But when I peer out of the cave, I may be surprised by how many friendly faces greet me.  

The Wolf and the Spider

So where have I been?

I imagine that's a question a few have asked, and I apologize for leaving you in the dark. After my road trip ended (it was a short one, even when I planned it due to logistics and finances) I was still feeling... emotionally turbulent? My giddiness was proper giddy like ice cream dripping down a child's arm. My frustrations were dark ocean currents gliding just deep enough under the surface to rip even the most well-balanced person off her feet.

I'm still riding those ups and downs. Some days I wake up with a deep aching in my belly (not related to the menstrual cramps, though that adds a thrilling dimension to the spasms in my gut and pelvis). My head and thought-feelings feel vague and far away like a lost drum beat echoing in some far off canyon. Other mornings my eyes open already set in determination as their vision reaches far beyond the bed I'm sleeping in and the current layer of skin that protects me from losing all my livelihood. Evenings range between bittersweet melancholy that grips my bones and viciously shakes them, to playful laughter and joy peeling from lips raw from truth-telling and truth-seeking.

The search to open, understand, and find the right degree of certainty and grounding is exhausting, yet oddly peaceful in moments. I find myself searching for my answers in the faces of others but inevitably hear the wounded wolf in my soul whimpering and howling for attention and intention.

I hear you, dear beast. I've had to content myself in finding sacredness in not knowing much of anything right now, especially not knowing the future months or days. One day at a time is all I can manage and a quiet part of my heart assures me that this is enough for now.

So where am I? I'm perched on a rickety dock looking out on a wide expanse. The surface hardens and swells like ice and boiling water sliding on top of the other over and over. Underneath these layers are ideas and hazy ghosts not yet completely formed. I've shifted to finding a place to settle for the next year or two, finding means to support myself enough and find some goddamn simplicity. I've a much better sense now of what I need and what my soul craves. The wolf that wants to wander, sniff, and explore, both in solitude and with beloved companions and the spider that searches daily for space to weave stories, create, and express with sweet relish and focused drive.

Expect another post from me this week, to make up for the hiatus. After that I'll return to my Tuesday morning posts. Much love, and much gratitude for this life and for the chance to just feel vividly and unashamedly.  

Panic and Pauses (Road trip day 4)

I love the pauses, the breaks in busyness. Breathing happens there, allowance happens there. I've been listening to The Lord of the Rings on audio book during my trip and I find I have to pause it occasionally or allow my mind to drift and wander back. Tolkien was not a concise writer; the “and then” style of story telling can be long and exhausting as the reader or listener begins to count how many times “it seemed to be” and “as if the” and “felt as though” are used in a chapter.

When I was a kid I would read two chapters of that trilogy per night. I look back on that now and offer my younger self an impressed, congratulatory slap on the back. Over time I get used to the language and overabundance of words and description, but the initiation back in can be painful.

My point is, pauses are important if the norm is excessive flow. The reverse is also true. The mindless mental vomit of a “stream of consciousness” style of writing feels amazing, very much like puking when I have a migraine (sorry for the image, but the comparison is accurate). Pressure and tension are suddenly released, and a jumble of mental jargon escapes. After that release though, is another pause.

Friday was tough. I woke late. At first I enjoyed the laziness offered to me. No specific plans, a unique hotel suite (with not one, not two, but three beds), painting supplies perched on a side table, and a damned crick in my neck. You know the kind. “Oh, you want to look over your shoulder? Well, I think I'm going to make that movement as restrictive and painful as possible. When will I back off? Psh, like I'd give you that information. No, no, carry on through your day. I'll be here.”

I found myself in dark emotional spaces. Eventually I painted a bit. I ordered Thai curry from the restaurant on the corner. I tried yoga to release a body loudly complaining about long hours spent in a car. Then menstrual cramping kicked in while the road noise outside inscreased as the evening hours drew closer.

I could not describe what I felt in simple terms. My skin was crawling, I was panicking, I started to cry. Planning anything for the following day/days seemed pointless; I didn't even know what I wanted to do. I didn't want to be where I was, but didn't want to run anywhere. I didn't want company but I didn't want to be alone.

The couple people I texted that night, bless their hearts, wanted to offer support and help me figure out what was going on. I felt irritated; I didn't want to analyze or figure anything out. I don't think I could have. Eventually, after peeing of all things, I walked back into the bedroom and remembered that I didn't have to hold this anxiety so tightly. I could relax into it and open up the space. I didn't have to focus intently on it, staring through cages, but I could permit whatever It was to sit next to me on the bed. Allowance happens in pauses. I don't have to like you, I don't have to hold your hand. But you can sit with me.

Time and sleep claimed my eyes and night breezes blew gently into my hair. As far as pauses go, sleep is truly a blessed one.

I expect I will gently peel back my trip's significance over time. The harsh shift between spacious wilderness and crowded suburban/urban towns seized my body and spirit just as harshly. This is the importance of experience: we understand, first hand, what our needs are based upon evidence and comparison. I'm not yet certain of the deeper implications... I yearn for solitude, quiet, and direct connection with earth and trees unlike any passing fancy. I also find great ease and creativity in all these things, which surprises me. In the past I've clung to companionship and lost my center to insecurity in relationships. Now I enjoy my own space and do not painfully miss my loved ones or general company of people... yet I still greatly look forward to coming “home.” To miss something or someone and still be content with where I am in the moment... that blows my mind.  

Wind and Tight Spaces (road trip day 2)

Yesterday is proving hard to write about.

I can easily access and communicate the basic details. On the same night I got into Medford, my plans began to shift as I heard from a friend living in Eureka, California. I'd planned on staying in southern Oregon before driving scooping southwest towards Crescent City and finally Eureka, where my booked hotel room waited for me. But if I had other sleeping arrangements...

After much debating and waffling I decided what the hell. I would drive up to Eugene, have lunch, scan the sights, then cut across highway 126 to Florence, then straight down the coast to Eureka. What originally had been 3 hours driving suddenly bloomed into 8.5, but this whole trip was about exploration, right?

I'd had a hard time getting to sleep that night, so the snooze button didn't need to say much before I took advantage of its services. I still managed a fairly early start, all things considered, and after awkwardly navigating the unexpected (for me) benefits of serviced gas stations, hit the road again.

Oregon is truly beautiful in many places, most of my driving was scenic with sloping hills, alternating farm lands and woodlands interrupted by mini cities. Eugene is a college town, and like most college towns, there's a certain vibe. I guess I mostly felt discombobulated since so much of my travel time has been solitary. All of a sudden there was a high increase of people to square inch, and cars to square inch so my spacial meter went into overdrive. I enjoyed good food while observing the particular “look” worn by young, mostly white, city Oregonians. College kids. I am not that far removed from them, not by any means, but I could not wait to get away from the town. My hour spent left me feeling a bit panicky. I left somewhat quickly, watching the tightly packed blocks ease into less manicured sidewalks and convenience stores framed by overgrown weeds.

Highway 126, leading westward to Florence, is beautiful. Truly. Each tree and winding turn pulled me back into a softer state as the muscles around my gut released and the tendons in my fingers loosened enough to grip the steering wheel less tightly.

Bandon marsh

This stretch of driving proved to be longer than I expected; once I shifted southward along 101 I only stopped in a couple of spots to explore. One of which was Bandon's marshes. One residential road led me to a vista point where I was able to walk all the way to the edge of the marshland. I loved finding quiet, uninhabited spaces to enjoy the wind, mud, and tangle of brush and tree. I wonder sometimes why I so often seek to escape the company of people.

I also napped in my car at that marsh for over an hour. I woke up in that half-groggy, half-alert mind-fog realizing that I still had at least four hours of driving left. The clock read 5:15pm and I wasn't even out of Oregon. I wasn't even that close to the border.

This didn't stop me from pausing one or two more times. When fat, white letters on the road read “Ocean View,” what's a girl like me to do? Follow them, naturally. I found a beach spot next to a harbor that was, imagine that, uninhabited. Driftwood, crab carcasses, soft milky clouds and huge stones jutting up from the water's crystal cap like fists. Fine sand, too, a bit darker grey than beaches on the southernmost end of the west coast.

Then I drove. And drove. By the time I reached Crescent City the sky had blackened. I knew the ocean was directly to my right, but I hardly dared to lift my gaze from the road ahead even if I could have seen the long expanse of water. For many miles all I could only think of my lack of cell phone reception, the dwindling number of vehicles passing, and the isolating pressure of two black forest walls on either side. But my trip was uneventful, and I eventually tumbled into the welcome arms of my friend who graciously allowed me to sleep on her living room floor in a lovely, quirky apartment. The day's events still are unfolding for me, each moment spent offers a piece of me, I know. Putting the whole together is the patience game.  

Roads, Rivers and Rocks (Road trip day 1)

I have a fun fact for you, I am on a road trip! I will be posting daily blogs while I'm traveling, so check back each day for something new (plus pictures). I'm currently camped out in a hotel room in Medford, Oregon; my body is wearily draped over the bed and my eyes ache. All those lines. Watching the lines go by, and by, and by. Flatlands, mountains, live crops and dead cows. No wait, I meant that the other way around. Those cows were definitely moo and munch crazy.

Thus completeth the first day of driving and sight seeing. Fair warning, I start acting a bit more sassy once I reach level 7 or so on the tiredness scale, so bear with me. This post might get a little rocky. But no rock slides, I promise.

I suppose a good place to start would be answering why I'm taking this trip. To which I respond, why the hell not? I'll back up and give you the short version: had an identity where-is-home crisis, a haven't-had-a-vacation-or-break-in-over-three-years crisis, found myself homeless (kinda anyway, I've got a generous Dad with a storage room plus mailbox address and a super wonderful friend who gave me a place to rest my head), and decided to go explore the other half of the state + extras. I've been “There and Back Again by Bilbo Baggins” all up and down the southern California stretch, but shit. I haven't been up in them hills in ten years or more. I grew up in a forest and lately I've see more primped golden beaches than towering woodlands.

Honestly.

Anyway, so yesterday I haphazardly threw a route together and spent hours agonizing over what hotels to book (because hotel beds give me the jeebie weebies). Today I picked up my maps, filled a bag full of fruits, veggies, nuts and hummus, slipped my sunglasses over a make-up free face and set out.

One of my big goals for this trip was to sketch and paint (and take reference photos for future oil paintings). A couple of points along I-5 had caught my eye so I planned on pulling off at least twice, but feeling free to stop off wherever was extremely important to me. National parks and campgrounds are all well and good but sometimes fees are required. Plus, you find hidden gems when you just start following random roads.

Sacramento River through Red Bluff

I pulled off at my first location, Red Bluff, because a road sign mentioned the state park. I never actually stopped at the park itself; instead I followed Adobe Road all the way through Surrey Village, this sorta woodsy riverside community featuring some swanky houses and mini mansions. The road runs parallel to the Sacramento River and I stopped at one point to walk and listen to the river lapping at the canal edges.

My second stop was pre-planned, Shasta Caverns a bit north of Redding. If I'd had more time and a more flexible budget I would have taken the Caverns tour but I drove back down the mountain, detouring off the various campground roads to explore a little. Nothing inherently exciting for me, the available stop points weren't my favorite and I forgot to stock up on dollar bills to pay for state park day use.

The third stop was a gem that I found purely by chance off Salt Creek Road in Lakehead. The road I eventually stumbled upon, Lower Salt Creek Road, runs along the Salt Creek Inlet to the larger McCloud River. I wound down, down, down until I found a fork: to the left was a paved road continuing toward a campsite while to the right was a rough, dusty off-shoot leading to a boat drop. Here's am overhead photo from Google Maps illustrating the creek, and railroad bridge stretching over it. The red line is where I drove.

Google Maps image of Salt Creek Inlet

So you can guess what I found:

Salt Creek Inlet near the old bridge, August 2013

This stretch of the river was almost completely dry. I was able to drive underneath the bridge and continue on a fair ways. The dirt was so soft and loose, really almost like a thin layer of fine sand. Once I got out of the car, even gentle walking kicked up little dust tornadoes. The rich layers of sediment were gorgeous, all stacking down to the soft, green bottom of the creek bed. The pathway of remaining water was littered with lost debris, who knows how long that stuff had been there.

Salt Creek Inlet near old bridge, dry bed

Salt Creek Inlet, dry bed

Old railroad bridge over Salt Creek Inlet, Lakehead, CA

After that, I didn't stop driving until I hit Medford. The belly of Oregon is gorgeous with its dips, windings and spattering of houses and farms tucked between trees. I felt weary, though. Once I checked into the hotel I sat for a while, unable to do much else except web surf and text my emergency contacts that yes, I was indeed still alive. I hunted Yelp to find something unique and tasty for dinner; I can say with certainty and enthusiasm that Kaleidoscope Pizzeria makes damn tasty vegetarian pizzas.

Also, thank you handful of friendly Oregon people I have briefly engaged with. You made my tired eyes happy-tired eyes.

Until tomorrow. Sending loves!

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

I realized I have been a ghost in my own life for a couple years. Looking at that reality is incredibly challenging, and a bit horrifying, even as I've had time to reflect and examine myself. I feel as if I spent day after day looking into a hazy mirror thinking the mirror itself was foggy, only to finally realize that I was the transparent one.

Have you looked back on moments or situations (or years) and realized you weren't THERE? Physically, maybe even mentally and emotionally, you might have existed. But your whole essence wasn't fully present. A part of you didn't feel, didn't engage. I expect anyone who has gone through periods of depression understands what I mean. We seem to function alright in the midst of that hazy state. We might get things done. We have conversations, we experience emotions. But we're shells amidst many of our hours and minutes spent.

That's what I mean. I was a shell. I felt excitement, I felt anxiety, I smiled and laughed with people, I wrote and taught and sang, but I felt so exhausted and empty that many of my actions echoed in a cavern. I've heard some people describe the soul “leaving” the body when it no longer feels safe, but I'm not certain I engage that belief (despite all my talk of empty shells). Rather, I forget how to communicate and be present to my soul. Like any intimate relationship, I suppose. We can live in the same house with someone and yet never engage. Inhabit the same space but never connect. Our internal space is no different. The shell isn't necessary empty, but the internal is ignored as my attention flits outside my skin. A soul sister of mine summed it up beautifully: "I'm learning how to be alone."

The "aloneness" is not necessarily a lonely home.

My parents used to talk about cherishing relationships as “tending to each other's gardens.” In very real ways how we tend to ourselves can change how tangible we are. Self-care, sure. But in order to tend anything, to care for anything, I need to BE in that space. Be aware of it, be a conscious participant. If my attention is scattered and I have no energy left to be with people I love, to do the things that matter to me, what am I?

A shell.

I feel alive after just a few days. Last Monday a friend asked me what I planned to do on my break; how was I playing and enjoying myself? I sat for a moment, processing my to-do lists, my tightening schedule filled with teas, lunches, and “hangouts” with various friends. I thought of the road trip formulating in my mind (represented by squiggly lines on a mental map), of the drawings and paintings I wanted to start.

I plan to feel, to experience fully, to enjoy the people I want to enjoy and explore a world I really exist in. If I touch the window of this coffee shop, I'll feel the cool surface, hard and perfectly smooth. I'll look into a lover's eyes and see a moment shared and secret while the air hangs thick between our bodies like a heavy mist pushed by our breath. I'll drive along the wriggling coastal line of California and notice when the edge of the world catches my gaze, begging me to stop and draw its effortless (and effort-full) form.

Fresh starts are opportunities to exist in the world that begs for our attention. Mountains become important because they're mountains. Social justice calls for action because we're human beings, too. A kiss goodbye in the early glimpses of morning is a strong voice declaring love in silent seconds.

Even gardens can grow in absence; inevitably they will become much wilder in that time, waiting for someone to push away the dead twigs and leaves to find the forgotten bulbs below the ground.

Snapshots of Mountains

Yesterday we finally finished packing our belongings, haphazardly nestling the rest of the house into a car and a Uhaul truck. I sent my boxes and canvases to temporary storage a couple days prior, not knowing where exactly I would end up.

Yesterday I drove away. Away from the condo, the house I called “home” for five years. Even when I lived in different towns and apartments I kept the phone number to the condo listed as “home.”

Walking away from the condo was strangely easy. I ate, slept, studied, practiced yoga, painted, had sex, took showers, cried, and wrote songs under that roof... I even snuck in a drunken movie night with a friend. But memories aren't always trapped in walls; I took mine with me the second I shifted into drive and rolled out of the parking lot.

Before the condo, I lived in an old, rundown mobile home surrounded by red dirt, pine trees and meadows. Most of the childhood I remember unfolded in that house. Sheets of plywood stretched underneath sections of the carpet because the original floor had begun falling apart. In my mid-teens we used pieces of a metal bunk bed frame to create a ramp to the kitchen door; the original porch had sagged, leaned, and crumbled too much to be used safely. In winter, the wood stove often roared with a fire in its belly through the entire night. Central heating? Please. The firewood my parents and I lugged into the house made nice Trojan Horses for little wolf spiders. At least, the spiders that didn't manage to make their way into the house in other ways.

Was that mobile home a “home?” Perhaps. I don't clearly remember my feelings about moving into the condo; that move represented a very specific transition in my life and my family's life. But I've struggled to find a place I “fit” into for some time. I've struggled to find solidity and clarity in my own skin. The harder I fought against myself, the less the spaces around me felt like home. So I don't wonder I can walk away from the condo without a second thought.

What does a home look like, anyway? I think I find home in people more than I do physical spaces.

Yesterday we drove for hours, cruising the long, slender Highway 5. I noticed the distinct transition between Northern California and Southern California: the Chevron station asked if I wanted to use my “Vons” rewards, rather than my “Safeway” rewards. At 7pm I approached the bottom of the Grapevine, a familiar pair of outstretched arms. I had tucked my left leg under my right while my bare right foot lightly rested on the brake. I navigated between slow semi's with flashing hazard lights and overeager sedans zipping ahead but my eyes kept drifting to the swelling mountains. The line of rolling hills stretched out wide to either side before splitting to create the passage I would soon drive through. Rippling mounds caught the fading sunlight and shaped deep, stark shadows. I wish I could have caught a passing snapshot, but I don't think that could have done the moment justice.

Sometimes having the snapshot is important. Very important. The physical evidence functions as a reminder of long forgotten days. But when I close my eyes I can feel the curve of that landscape as if I were running my fingers along its golden flesh. The memory will probably fade in time just like the smiles and faces of old friends or the touch of old lovers. But that moment will become its own reminder, a little spark imprinted on my mind and soul. Next time I drive through the Grapevine I might remember when earth's sloping face stole my attention. Next time I see sunset and shadows dancing together I might remember. No guarantee, but I might.

We don't always need a physical “thing” to make our lives matter more. The condo was a temporary bookmark where moments unfolded but that doesn't make the moments less special. My not having a photograph of those mountains doesn't diminish the experience I had, either. I so easily clutch onto small pieces in time. Seconds. The past seconds still matter but I don't think they OUTweigh the breath I'm taking now or the fingers I'll clasp in days to come. The same lips will taste different next week. The same experiences can still be fresh.

Old homes can be new and new homes could remind me of old, loved spaces... of shabby houses or clean boxes. These spaces matter less than the lives we create within them.  

Cider, Bank Statements, and Relationships

A bottle of my favorite Fox Barrel pear cider is sitting on the coffee table next to my propped and crossed feet. Ginger and Blackcurrant, crisp and delicious. The olive green label reminds me of the T-shirt a friend wore yesterday. The shirt (and friend) remind me of what I did, who I saw, where I went, what I felt and thought yesterday. An eventful day, to say the least.

So I'm having trouble concentrating this evening... As I write this I feel exhausted at a deep, deep soul level.

Moving will do that to you.

Not just moving. The whole transition, the change, the transformation, the purging, the letting go, the releasing. Oddly, sorting my possessions has become a therapeutic metaphor for all the other emotional shit. This afternoon the heap of my belongings dwindled while the “throw away” or “donate” piles swelled. While I'm not very sentimental about my stuff I unconsciously attach much of my identity to it. This is a part of my life's footprint. What will I be remembered for, what legacy am I leaving behind, how do my belongings describe who “I” am? And how many old bank statements do I have? Holy shit, so many. 

Believe me, I'm aware of how narcissistic this all sounds.

My point is this: as I process the end of certain relationships and find closure with old paradigms, letting go of the material things gets easier. As my focus shifts to what I want to create, what kind of mental and emotional space I need to dip into my life with a soup ladle, the old stuff naturally drops off. Not to say I'm forgetting or stuffing that old stuff. Far from it. But obsessively focusing on a broken machine can constrict or bloat it until it's the only thing I see.

So this is a balance between the letting go and the creating. What a revolutionary concept.

Sometimes those processes (destroying the old, creating the new) happen simultaneously. Or they overlap. Maybe a relationship ends first so healing can begin before the next one. Maybe we discover an opportunity but in order to reach for it we realize that something else has to give.

I'm uncovering how I want and need to be in relationship with others. Intimate, romantic, friendly, casual, in passing, all of it. What does it mean to be in an equal relationship? When do we hold each other at arms length, when do we put on the masks, when are the masks necessary, when do we say no, when do we say “fuck off,” when do we say “I love you,” and do we really really truly mean it?

In that whole clusterfuck of thoughts, I have to acknowledge just how many objects, thoughts, people, and hopefully habits, I'm letting go of. What a bittersweet process... Each of us has a perspective, a set of feelings, a set of opinions, and a set of justifications that follow our actions. There's nothing inherently wrong with this. All those aspects of ourselves weave, tangle, break, mend, grow, cross, and sometimes separate permanently. Even when the “right thing” seems so illusive, I'm so grateful for what I have and cherish. Like Fox Barrel cider. Not exactly cherish worthy, but still damn tasty.

Swells of Sadness and Love

Lately my impending move (from this house, this town, this community, this life) feels like a bone-crushing weight.

I'm reminded of all the lessons and questions I offer students in my yoga classes. We can numb and hide through lack of action, surely. But we can also avoid ourselves in mental or physical busyness. We can “push” through to keep from feeling. Sure, we get stuff done. We act. But what am I ignoring?

The humor isn't lost on me. During the yin yoga training I led recently, I asked the participants to notice what sensations and emotions they feel when the body is still and quiet. We can be so scared of what we experience and allowing all that sensation to wash over us is intense. There's no getting around that.

One lesson I learned very early is: when we offer questions or insight, we probably need those wisdoms ourselves. Sometimes the circumstances are already in effect. Other times, the question I ask my students shows up in my life not two weeks later.

I resist admitting I feel scared or sad to others. Usually I don't fight sadness within myself, but I haven't wanted to succumb to this grief. Friends have asked me, “So, are you excited about the move?” No, I'm not really excited. Then I feel awkward because they're excitement for me suddenly deflates. Or they continue with the common follow up question: then why not just stay here?

I taught my final yin yoga class at the studio—one of the Sunday night classes. Often as a gift to send with them I sing or chant while everyone is relaxing in savasana. This time, my song represented a final goodbye. I felt the air pricking my skin and a soft pressing on my chest. I knew I wasn't the only emotional one, but one person packing up let her tears fall more freely. We embraced and held each other for a long time, and she murmured in my ear: “It's the end of an era.”

A couple nights later while clasping hands with an intimate soul lover I tearfully expressed the grief I felt. I haven't wanted to feel this, I haven't allowed myself to. To feel this sadness means letting go of an old life. Not completely, these years are still a part of who I am. But leaving the yoga studio, leaving the house I've inhabited, leaving the town I've existed in (it has never really been a home to me)... Initially I just wanted to escape from this place. But in the last few months the same soul whose fingers were now tangled in mine reminded me that the things, the goals, and the people that are important to us, they matter. How we spend our time matters. Being vulnerable to ourselves and the people who matter changes who we are, inspires us to run toward something beautiful.

If I choose to run, I want to run towards something, not away.

During that night I repeatedly wiped my cheeks to make room for the next wave of tears. The loving soul in front of me sat quietly, tracing the lines of my fingers and palm. I truly wish and hope that all of you find safe spaces to be with the upheaval inside of you and release it. Yes, it requires trust and vulnerability, but when that space can be held for you, or you hold that space for someone else, that is sacredness in all its glory.

I'm sure in time, as plans form and intentions and goals are recreated and discovered, excitement will begin to set in. But in many of these moments, terror and grief blossom deeply in my throat and behind my eyes. As days draw closer to some form of final end, this is my reality. After choking on a rush of sobs, I whispered, “I don't know how to honor that.” But that is how I can honor it. I ask my students, “What does it feel like to be in your body right now?”

It feels painful, and sad, and beautiful. I feel loved, I really do. Even with this gravity, there is still love here.  

Moving through Fear

I've practiced, learned, and taught at a yoga studio in Northern California for the last two and a half years. That space was a sort of home but I'm moving forward now. Moving moving, crossing a wide expanse of land moving. There have been bigger, more expansive moves in history but this is a big one for me. Through this process I've cycled through thinking, deciding, declaring, transitioning, planning, freaking out, procrastinating, packing, and more freaking out.

Lately, as my time at this home draws closer to an end, I'm engaging more in the freaking out part.

Not the sweating, trembling, panic-attacky freaking out. But the quiet fear that shows up in the mass of half packed boxes and untouched plastic garbage bags on my floor. The sleeping-in-til-noon, the piles of laundry and my turquoise sheets that desperately need cleaning. The mental to-do list in my head that hasn't made its way to paper because then this mess would be real. The written or the spoken words, they matter. They're more real than a fleeting thought.

I stuff and tuck this quiet fear underneath my stomach, ignoring its squirming until the pressure is too much to handle. This is how I internalize fear. If you watch me you'd notice I don't openly show my nervousness; I quiet, I still, and my energy sucks inward like a tortoise. I do nothing.

Fear causes a pause, a seizing up, a halt, a change of gears or direction. Last week I sorted through stacks and worn boxes of old drawings and writing and I began finding clues and insights into a childhood I don't remember very well. Finding some of these surprising, wonderful, and sometimes painful gems means something deeper than nostalgia and sentiment. I'm not sentimental about many of my belongings or much of my past. Instead, the symbolism of this process struck me right in the chest. This move symbolizes transcending years of hurts I don't remember the origins of.

I don't believe in being born again. I don't believe in recapturing a child-like state of innocence, and I don't believe in ultimate bliss, contentment, or the jelly-like blob of unity and love some people preach about. I will never throw out my journals regardless of what they hold. They're still relevant, the words still matter. That life still matters. If I move through fear, it won't be because I've forgotten about it or ignored it. I'll move through it because something mattered more than standing still. Transcending the current moment means honoring the past and reaching out in front of myself simultaneously.

I could easily not act at all and stay where I am. But after a pause, fear demands action, doesn't it? The running. The jumping. The falling. We run towards something or we run away, changing direction. Fear must react against something.

What purpose does me staying in one stagnant place serve? Nothing. It's time to grow, it's time to learn, expand and be bigger. That expansion is always larger than any fear of the unknown. Sigh it out, allow this to escape from the body. 

Poems, books, phrases, stories, and memories often show up for me in these moments of panic or revelation. When they do, notice them. I grew up reading Dune by Frank Herbert, and one line from that book will always settle with me: “I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

If I don't push the limits, will I ever be able to remember that I'm still breathing?