Ripples

Hello dear friend,

It has been a while. I've missed you and the possibility you hold in your vastness. I've loathed you and the unending depths you put out there that I can't muster the energy to explore. And I've thought a whole lot about you and the self I too access by being here, in a place that is quiet and wonderous but also dark and lonely. I wonder, why do I tiptoe around this space, this self, with such fear? What am I afraid of?

It's been nearly five years -- FIVE -- since I've sat here with a blank page, choosing to dig up the energy to fill it. To feel what it feels to write. And you know what? It feels really, really good. It's a deep release of control in many ways, which is funny because writing is so much about control, which words to choose and which to leave out. It's a world we create on the page, but this world is a reflection of the self, an extension of the self even. And for me, I simultaneously feel relief and a tug at my throat, my shoulders drop and tears brim at my eyes, as if waiting for something to release them completely.

For a long time, I've made myself feel guilty for not coming here to express myself in a way that feels whole and good and vulnerable. I've always wanted to consider myself a writer and yet I'm embarrassed at how easy it's been to step around this space, or rather, to deliberately avoid it. But if I'm honest, I'm writing every day in my head even if it doesn't make the page. That voice in me is begging to be unleashed, to have the opportunity to see what it wants to say. Uninhibited and raw and exhausted. 

I've started and stopped writing too many times to count. I've made resolutions and commitments and goals again and again. And who knows if this time will be different. But I'm here, embracing the quiet and willing to see what beauty and pain is lurking there beneath its blank surface. 

Thank you, friend, for always being here. For putting out a hand and pulling me back in. I didn't realize how much I've been holding back, and I'm a bit terrified still to see what I might discover. But isn't that the point of all of this? To see what is there beneath the surface, to study it, embrace it and perhaps make waves that break the calmness up above and also make room for the unexpected. Today may only make ripples but it's a start. And today, that can be enough. 

With love,

Mel

The purposeless life

Lately, my life has been a bit slower and quieter than I'm used to. There's new space in my day to day that wasn't there before and I've tried my best to let it be and see what happens. Holy shit, it is not easy.

Let's just say that I'm not the best at letting things go. I like—okay, I love—order and check lists and knowing that I'm getting something done every day. I want to think that it's less about having a sense of control and more this incessant need to be productive and feel like I'm perhaps creating some sliver of meaning in the world.

But really, what is there to create? Taking a step back, I see how self-centered that idea is. Who am I to contribute to everything that already is?

So instead of trying to fill the space like I always do, I'm sitting in it. And gently, with little agenda or expectation, feeling that effect it has. Noticing how badly I want to jump up and fill it. And you know what? Slowly, very very slowly, that urgency to move and do begins to fade a bit. And in it's place? Truthfully, I'm not sure how to describe it. But isn't that the point of it all?

I think back to some wise words from Alan Watts:

“Paradoxical as it may seem, the purposeful life has no content, no point. It hurries on and on, and misses everything. Not hurrying, the purposeless life misses nothing, for it is only when there is no goal and no rush that the human senses are fully open to receive the world.” 

The purposeless life. It doesn't project the hope and shiny inspiration I'm normally drawn to. But in this newly found space that's there, well, it merely is. And I am. And you are. And for right now, that is enough.

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

—Mary Oliver

And the music plays on

The clouds move with power and purpose, morphing into one another as they hurry along in some unknown direction beyond what I can see. The whole sky turns over and around and under and a vigorous, brisk wind enters like a passionate burst of notes on a piano. The tall trees dance along gracefully for a few moments, until the music stops and everything falls silent.

I am one tiny, seemingly insignificant spec in this world. But I am still a spec. I feel the cold wind on my cheeks, running its fingers through my hair and the sun shines down on my face through the temporary windows shifting between the clouds. Perhaps I am a part of this picture, of the hugeness and enormity of nature. And just as the clouds and wind and blades of grass move in their directions, I move in mine. Sometimes with purpose, sometimes with ease, and sometimes with faith knowing that this life, all of it together, creates a spectacular wholeness that I am only beginning to discover.

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