A girl

The evening is silent, except for the gentle sway of trees and the last bit of bird chatter before they too head off to their nests. I sit in bed, curled up in an ancient powder blue robe, turning the pages of an old college photo album that I dug out of my closet. I pause for a moment and count the years. One, two, three ... seven. These pictures were taken SEVEN years ago. How is that possible?! We all look so young. And regardless of the time that has passed, as I flip the pages, the most vivid memories come hurdling toward me. Impromptu dancing in the middle of the street, beach camping, floatopia, sitting on the sea wall talking about life and what we all wanted—or thought we wanted—after college. And of course, walking everywhere barefoot all the time.

Each photo holds a world of its own—a story that springs to life with such color and brilliance. And even more than the memories themselves, I reconnect wholly to the person I was and how I felt at that time. Oh how things have changed. Man, how I have changed. Somewhere along the way I created this new life and a reality I would have never dreamt up seven years ago.

And sometimes I think about the dreams I used to have. I haven’t quite gone down the path I thought I would and I wonder… Have I compromised myself? Have I stopped fighting for what I want, and most importantly, for the person I want to be? I realize that this journey often doesn’t go as planned and I’m okay with that. But what about my values? Have I stayed true to those? Would my idealistic, hopeful, fiercely independent college self be disappointed? Or would she be proud knowing that I’ve forged this new path, taken risks and tried my best to be kind and gracious to the people that I’ve met along the way?

More often than not, I look back over the years and think about how much I’ve “grown up” and realized what adult life is and means. But maybe it’s healthy to revisit that old self, filled with potential and excitement for anything and everything still to come. To remember the unspoiled view of the world I had and a fearlessness that made me feel like anything was (and is) possible.

On the second to last page, I pause at one photograph. There’s a girl standing barefoot, looking out at the golden sun setting over the Pacific. She sees nothing but rolling waves and sea and light. There are tears in her eyes but she still smiles from her heart knowing that whatever comes next will be good. That this life might be full of surprises but this place, this self, will always be right here. And she’s right. That girl is right here. She hasn’t left and neither have her dreams. Sometimes it just takes some digging and a few old photos to find her.

The full spectrum

Cold raindrops land on my warm cheeks and the sunshine still holds strong. My breath speeds up, my feet press against the earth with purpose and every cell in my body is alive with energy, endorphins and possibility. The sky can't quite make up its mind this evening but I don't care.

Then I catch a glimmer of something in the corner of my eye. And the mother of all rainbows blazes its colors in a glorious arc across the sky. Wow. Even my breath catches in my throat. What a beautiful, gracious gift. And a reminder that everything is transient. But sometimes the earth blows you away with its outrageous beauty. It's our job to pause, notice and embrace what is all around us. Then to keep on going. One small but mighty step at a time.

And just because a rainbow always reminds me of this quote, so artfully said by Emerson + Winnie the Pooh.

"This is my wish for you: Comfort on difficult days, smiles when sadness intrudes, rainbows to follow the clouds, laughter to kiss your lips, sunsets to warm your heart, hugs when spirits sag, beauty for your eyes to see, friendships to brighten your being, faith so that you can believe, confidence for when you doubt, courage to know yourself, patience to accept the truth, Love to complete your life."

Early mornings

I wake up with dreams still swirling around in my head, retreating to some far off corner of my mind where I can no longer reach them. I settle into the present moment. The early morning sky is still fast asleep, dark and quiet. My current situation begins to sink in, to feel real, and almost immediately a tidal wave of questions, doubts and uncertainties come flooding in. I know I should learn to be comfortable here, to appreciate the possibilities that come with the unknown, but at times I'll admit that it can be paralyzing. If I take one wrong step in any direction, maybe I'll screw up. Again.

Ever since I was little, I carried with me this love of adventure, of challenging myself to take risks and grow. There was no fear associated with the unknown but instead a thrill of what could be. And as I've gotten older, I've come to realize that for better or worse, I rarely understand or see the consequences of taking those risks, of trying to be that person that embraces change over comfort. I take the leap with my whole heart and once I land, everything's unearthed again. The comfort and stability I had—or thought I had—shifts, leaving me with this glaring hole of doubt that burrows uncomfortably deep. I do everything I can to fill it—and whoa man, do I fill it. I depend on my job and those around me to patch up the void, to make that sense of emptiness feel less real. And it works for a while. Hell, I can fake it better than I want to admit.

But soon enough, it catches up with me. And I have no choice but to face it, to sit in it and acknowledge the discomfort and doubt. It's a lonely place to be. But perhaps that loneliness serves a purpose. It has to. I suppose sometimes we have to force ourselves to really see where we are, what we feel and what we believe, and we need to do that in a space that's not cluttered by busyness, work, people, whatever distractions we teach ourselves to lean on. By allowing ourselves to be lonely, or rather to embrace solitude amidst the discomfort, we enter a rare place where we can ask big important questions and hopefully, eventually, give ourselves real, honest answers.

I think back to a quote that Brene Brown included in Daring Greatly. She writes:

"Only when we're brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light."

The sky outside my window is slowly beginning to stir. The midnight blue mass gently starts to fade to indigo as the day inches forward to light. Lying here, I feel it all. And I don't know what comes next. But I'm teaching myself to be brave, to know that each step forward is just that—a step in a direction where I can begin again. Who knows if the choices we make are right or wrong in this life. But if we can trust ourselves and our own strength to embrace whatever comes, then maybe the adventure in its entirety is worth it. 

Some morning inspiration

..."If you trust in Nature, in what is simple in Nature, in the small Things that hardly anyone sees and that can so suddenly become huge, immeasurable; if you have this love for what is humble and try very simply, as someone who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor; then everything will become easier for you, more coherent and somehow more reconciling, not in your conscious mind perhaps, which stays behind, astonished, but in your innermost awareness, awakeness and knowledge. You are so young, so much before all beginning, and I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now, Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."

-- Rainer Maria Rilke Letters to a Young Poet

11.14.15

Rain drops splatter gently on the windows, plop plop plop, gathering in numbers and washing the day away as we welcome the night. Sitting in Omi’s cozy corner chair, I can’t shake this tinge of melancholy. It’s amazing that a place I’ve only visited a few times in my life can still hold such a wealth of memories. On the shelves there are books that Andy read and studied intently as an 8-year old. Opi’s pipes stand neatly lined up on the wall in the corner, his presence still here, still solid and real.

I peer into Omi’s life. The beautiful, difficult and at times painful life that she's lived. And through it all, surrounded by the stories that weave together her rich history, there is such peace and calm in this home. Being back here I notice how on edge I feel, how tightly wound and fast-moving I am, barely stopping for more than 15 minutes to read or pause or be. It’s taking some practice, but this week has been so grounding, as if with each morning I wake up with a little less weight, a bit less baggage.

Until this visit, I don’t think I’ve ever noticed the calm that Omi radiates. She brings it with her everywhere she goes and it's palpable. Even just sitting next to her or sharing a meal at the table, her energy is like river of serenity washing through me, taking away the stress and anxiety that don’t belong. 

I want so badly to be that type of person, to manifest such peace and share that with others without even realizing it. To feel balanced and content with exactly how things are. But more often than I like to admit, I fight against what I have, or want something more or think I need whatever else it is to really start my life. But this is it. This moment, the uncertainty I so easily get caught up in, the rain drops plopping one by one by one. I know I can’t suddenly change the way I experience and think about my life and the world, but if I could just let things be as they are and enjoy them. Soak up each seemingly tiny moment and know that I will be fine. No amount of stress or worry or wonder will make a difference, but I can learn to be present and deal with life as it is.

I sit here with tears in my eyes, tears I’ve felt brimming for days now, and I don’t know why. And as I start to dissect my emotions to make sense of them all, I stop. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need any answers right now. I’m okay. Hell, I’m so incredibly lucky to have so much love and vibrance in my life. Can’t that be enough?

My one wish is if I am lucky enough to grow “old” one day, I can look back on my life and feel peace and gratitude. To know that I loved and adventured and took risks and trusted myself entirely. This life will not ever be what we expect or what we planned. But at the end of the day, isn’t that where the beauty and magic happens? Today, I choose to trust that and make room for more magic in my own life. A little slice of it each and every day.

"Sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest we take between two deep breaths."  - ETTY HILLESUM

Sometimes words are just enough

How cool would it be to personalize the words, change the colors and make this a wedding invitation?  I'll admit that I rarely if ever think of these things, but the hopeless romantic in me can't help but run wild daydreaming with an image like this.  Words turned into visual art?  Definitely one of those "why didn't I ever think of that?!" - moments.  Still, I'm glad someone did.  Pitter patter, pitter patter.

Found here.

Daydreaming of...

A day mopeding all around Santorini....

A Costa Rican sunset...

 And spring time.

Pretty please?  I'll take any of the above.  Gladly.  Though I suppose the third the is most realistic.  But hey, who needs realism anyway?

Feverish

Being sick royally sucks.  And yes, this is a highly original thought.  Aside from the piles of balled up kleenexes like leftover snow forming barriers around the couch and one overworked tea kettle, I must admit that catching a nasty cold does have one perk: it's forcing me to finally slow down.

For the past however many months since I've started working, I've barely stopped to breathe.  Or when I have, it's only for a brief moment that doesn't stick around long enough to mean anything.  It's as if this cold snuck in just in time to remind myself of that whole concept of balance and how vitally important it really is to our health (and sanity).

So all weekend I have been lounging at home, watching movies, reading, laying in bed in the middle of the afternoon - things I haven't done on the weekend in I don't even know how long.  The fuziness of my mind prohibits me from thinking too hard about anything (it's a lost cause, I swear) and instead I settle in that middle ground where reality and dreams come to meet.  And it feels so good to just be.  To let it all go.  I day dream all afternoon and wonder about things, reliving old memories just to be with those people I'm not lucky enough to have in DC right now.

The piles of kleenexes grow taller and the sky outside fades into black.  The sniffling may not subside for a while, and I hope the wandering mind doesn't either.  For now I lay in the dark amidst flickering candles, watching lightening forge paths across the sky.  Not your typical Sunday Funday, but I'll take it.

3.19.2011

Writing.  It has been a while.  A long while.  I’ve had my excuses.  My sad excuses for not taking the time to sit with the blank page and think.  Really think.  The truth is that the blank page used to give me comfort.  I’d sit there and revel in the possibilities that all that space could hold.  Words upon words, strung together to create meaning that I could call my own.  Even if I struggled, if the words didn’t make sense, if I ended with my forehead in my hands out of frustration for not knowing what came next … But eventually—when eventually came—the page would be filled, overflowing with words and thoughts and dreams and realities.  I knew that I had accomplished something.

Lately though, that ominous white space has a different effect.  I barely know what to do with it, let alone with myself.  Even the mere thought of sitting and writing makes my anxiety flare up and I want to run away screaming with my arms flailing wildly above my head.  

But, something about today made me realize that I still need this space, no matter how intimidating it can be at times.  My fingers now glide across the keys—nowhere near effortless—but they still work diligently, with promise and intention.  I think of all the time I used to spend here, in this space, and I can’t help but smile.  The familiarity if it, the process, the thinking, the feeling of letting the words unravel right in front of you.  I love this place, and suddenly, I’m just starting to remember that.