Comfort

In the midst of so much change, so much fear, so many frightening possibilities there is comfort in the small things.  Commercials which haven't changed in tone since I was ten years old.  Comfortable lounges on couches.  The warmth of a nearby dog, snuggling up close and seeking the same comfort as me.   The quiet but constant ticking of a nearby clock.

Small, simple materials.  Quiet, inconsequential consistencies.  These are the buoys that keep one afloat in the chaos of the storm.

The Story

We all tell stories.  Some as transient as clothes or quick jokes that can't be repeated too often- they go out of style.  Some as permanent as bones which act as the pillars to hold up our legacy.  We use them to define ourselves, our world, our lives.  We use them to explain our existence.

But stories are told by storytellers- those who have wit and charisma to spice up the dull parts and add tension and terror where it's needed.  Those who can lilt their words and lengthen their pauses to lull the listener into calm or excitement.   Those who remember how to spot in the crowd, how to deliver the punch line.  The story is just a tool in the aresenal, and it's meaning is given to it by the story teller.

All of our lives are stories, every moment being cataloged and remembered for a specific purpose.  As we tell these stories, as we repeat them over and over again, the truth gets foggier and foggier.  The events they were based on aren't as clearly remembered.  The details get left in favor of the overall message, the purpose of the story.

And what happens when the story breaks?  When the message doesn't match the facts?  Well then the arguing begins.  "That's not how I remember it".  "It didn't happen the way you're saying it did."  "You're exaggerating."  We quibble about the details, we get lost in the facts (none of which are clearly remembered), we get angry at the missed points or the lack of continuity.

And all the while, we miss that we're not telling the same story anymore.  We miss that the purpose has changed.  We miss the message, because the details aren't clear anymore and we can't rebuild the power the tale once had.

It hurts when a story breaks.  It hurts when we realize that maybe it was just a story- that the powerful, almost magical way it carried us was perhaps just a creation of the storytellers.  It hurts when we realize that the facts that made it up in the first place are gone, replaced by memories hand-selected by the story because they supported the message.  It hurts when we can't tell the story anymore because it doesn't feel true.

And when the story breaks down, when the storytellers run out of words... the silence is deafening.

Packing

You don't think about the end when you're at the beginning.  I remember when I moved in- it was a sunny day and I felt so light I thought I might fly over.  I'd been sleeping there for weeks already, slowly emptying out the apartment of belongings and clothes.  The last day, loading the truck and handing in the keys I kept thinking "this is how it's supposed to be."

It was just the two of us- no help was needed.  But I was strong and independent and I carried as much as I could myself.  Getting the dresser in required some tetris skills and I climbed over the bookcase to pull it into place, effectively trapping myself in the truck behind high- stacked wooden furniture.  I couldn't figure out my footing trying to climb out so he reached his hand for me.  Before I knew it he'd pulled me out and thrown me over his shoulder as if I weighed nothing, as if I was just as light as I felt.  I laughed and screamed and the thought repeated: "this is how it's supposed to be."

Now, looking out at half packed boxes and bubble wrap the house looks alien, haunted.  Almost like a crime scene- something happened here that shouldn't have happened.  My room which was for years my space to keep all my nick-nacks and crafts, all my stuffed animals and books, all my things that I collected had become a liability- too much work to be done in the time agreed before I had to get out.  These things which I'd spent years amassing as proof of my happy life... pictures and programs from plays and concerts.  Boxes of Christmas, birthday and anniversary cards collected for happy reminiscence- now too painful to look at.  But I can't bring myself to throw them away.  So they get packed along with all the rest- more ghosts to haunt me later.

There are gifts everywhere- the little kitten stuffed animal he'd hidden tickets to a concert in, a little ape with devil horns and a heart he'd given me for Valentines, plaques and personalized frames he'd used to commemorate my achievements.  The things we keep to remind us that we are loved.  Now bubble wrapped and packed for a later time when I am strong enough to face it, for a time when just breathing doesn't take as much effort.  Something happened here that shouldn't have happened.

The threat of crying lingers so close to the surface I could trip over it, but I desperately cling to the details- what will fit where, what to label the box, how to protect the precious contents.  It's mechanical, concrete, blessedly logical and my brain can comprehend it- unlike those tears.  Unlike the question of how this happened.  It shouldn't have happened.

But it did.  Like it does for so many, like so many others running around with their own ghosts.  I am one of the haunted now.  And I bring my ghosts with me.

The Road

Everyone stops running eventually, at least that's what they say.  You stop, settle.  Things become ordinary, repetitious- normal.

But she'd tried normal and normal hadn't brought her anything other than a seriously vindictive ex-husband and a mountain of debt so overwhelming she couldn't bear to face it- so she didn't.  She packed a bag (or rather just violently shoved some clothes, tooth brush and paste, deodorant, shampoos and other necessities into a duffle bag which she'd tossed into the back seat of her truck before screeching out of her ex-driveway.)

When she started driving she had no idea where she was going, why, or what it would lead to.  At first she'd managed to convince herself it was supposed to be.  One of those crazy, life-altering universe interventions that made no sense at the time but ultimately ended up putting one exactly where they're meant to be.

But now a glance at the signage let her know that she was most definitely NOT where she was meant to be.  In fact, she had no earthly idea where she was.  Jednota- who the hell had ever heard of Jednota, ever?

A familiar site- in the form of a gas station advertising the brand of cigarettes she'd been smoking since she was 16- prompted her to pull over.  She lingered in the convenience store, mulling over the best choice of snacks and contemplating the origins of the word convenience, when she saw her. 

She was looking at the flavors of frozen slushie with the same discerning eye one would use when considering a choice in diamonds.  The eyes were faded, somehow and there were scars on her face that hadn't been there 18 years ago but there was no mistaking the site of her old roommate.

She hesitated for a moment.  Perhaps out of shock or sheer bodily rejection of movement, but frozen she stood.  Eventually, her brain started working, started playing out the options.  But before she could envision either possibility the woman felt herself being watched and looked up.  She turned her head to look at her more closely, and then her eyes widened.  She displayed no hesiation whatsoever, she was not frozen- she was angry.

Apparently time doesn't heal all wounds.

After the Storm

You can never be too certain  Another squall could start up.  There could be more wind, a backlash of high tides, the skies could blacken again.  People walk around like squirrels- darting and freezing, their heads constantly moving towards the sound or movement sensed from the corner of their eye.

But as the sun emerges and the unnatural stillness takes over there is always the look- the blinking, unsteady gaze of people who've kept their eyes tightly shut in fear.  There's a testing- is the ground steady, the air clear, the passage safe to move forward?  There's a quiet that cannot be mimicked by anything else, by any other circumstances.

And while it will take time, maybe even years, to repair the damage and longer still to understand everything that has happened there is a sense of relief.  The storm has passed.  Life goes on.  Time to rebuild. 

The Wall

It started out as a pebble, an inconsequential thing that wouldn't even cause one to trip as they walked with ease across the space.  They fell into each other easily and love blossomed the way it always does.  It didn't matter that the pebble was chipped off of something much bigger- neither of them were looking, neither of them sought to see.

As more stones were added, no alarms were raised.  Everyone carries something with them, everyone is weighed down by something.  Here was the place to unburden, to stop bearing the load, to let go.  But the stones were collecting, even then.

Over time, habits developed, as they always do.  A thought or idea not expressed, another stone added.  A feeling strongly felt but denied, another stone added.  Fears and potential disasters holding back the lovers- stone, stone, stone.

But there was still love there.  And the barrier wasn't thick enough to block out their voices, it could not prevent their touch.  They reached each other, still.  And they loved deeply.

Neither one noticed as the wall was built through large and small interactions, through words unspoken and feelings stifled, through hurts and injuries and exhausted options.  Neither one dared to label the difficulty in reaching through, the impossibility of maintaining contact.  Neither one was willing to say that they couldn't see.

And everyday life went on.  Without destruction, without change.  Ignorance is bliss, as they say.  But day after day, the patterns repeated themselves.  Day after day, the wall grew.

They it hit on in a surprise battle, erupting over the slightest push to the now firm tower of stone between them.  A touch and it's extent was realized, it's mass registered.  But they couldn't allow themselves to see, couldn't confront the reality.  Too many stones, too long, too tall, too impenetrable.  Best to leave it be, better to pretend.

The next eruption was sudden and violent- a full-on sprint against the wall and fast, painful recoil.  There were serious injuries- broken bones, bloody limbs, egos on life support and confusion all around. How had such a huge barrier gotten between them?  How long had it been there?  Could they break through?

They yelled to each other over the towering height of the wall and their answers were muffled and faded by the time they reached the bottom.  Their anger intensified and attacks were launched on both sides.  They threw more stones at the wall, trying to break through.  They scratched and clawed at the surface, trying to find a crack they deepen.  The screamed in frustration and beat their fists against the surface, desperate to be heard, to be seen, to be reached.

But the wall was old, older than either could ever allow themselves to admit, and it's barrier stood fast.  Words unspoken are powerful blocks to build upon.

In the end, both sat on wither side- exhausted, spent.  Their energy drained, their spirits defeated.  Eventually, they would pick themselves up and walk off- away from the wall and the person on the other side.  They would tell stories of their isolation, their attempts to break through, their failure.  They would cry and rage and finally drop.  And then, one day, they would go looking for another lover- careful to avoid any stones.

The Middle

There are two different worlds existing in my mind and they are at war with one another.  I cannot reconcile the difference and it feels as if I'm being torn apart by the conflict.

In the past there is a rich warm history.  A family that I was part of.  A decade of love and smiles and laughter.  A decade of family photos featuring me with light in my eyes.  Of weddings, birthdays, and countless celebrations.  Of quiet moments and firm beliefs that I was home.

In the future there is a new, vibrant, wild version of myself.  A woman with fierce passions and unapologetic existence.   A woman with crazy, funky hair and stories beyond imagination.  A woman who is so self-loving that there is no room in her life for anyone else, no part of herself reserved for anyone other than her.  A woman my soul feels called to become.

And in between those two, in the middle of these two worlds, is me.  Petrified of moving forward, sure I can't go back.  Lost in the fog of my confused, frightened thoughts.  Overcome by grief so strong it robs me of breath and filled with fire so hot I cannot ignore it.

Everyone says that this is the place to be.  This is that which we seek when we call upon ourselves to live fully, without reserve.  This is the soul's battlefield and the richest, most fruitful part of my existence.

But I am breathing pain, my heart is beating pain, my brain is drowning in pain.  I am begging for a way out, for an end to this in between, for my life to take the course it must.  But my actions which direct that course, my words that drive the play forward, are trapped in the fear and pain.  Trapped in the middle.

Reading List

There's a scene in the movie Eat, Pray, Love (which is a pretty good representation of the book on the whole) in which my idol Liz Gilbert- played by the brilliant Julia Roberts- is standing at the counter of a book store, being rung up for a whole stack of books about getting over loss, starting over and rebuilding, and the like.  Her face had the characteristic puffy eyes and red cheeks of someone who's been crying heavily and often, and her body carries the exhaustion of someone who has been completely and utterly drained.  The cashier, infuriatingly helpful, points out "You know there's a whole section on divorce."

This was me today, standing at the counter in Barnes and Noble and bitching about the number of journals designed for couples in love to tell their stories and the complete and total lack of journals designed for people in my situation.  Hating myself for playing the part so completely while remembering that scene so very well.  Wondering how in the hell I got to this point in my life and thinking cynically that everyone will end up here at some point.

Plot Twist

I've done it.  I've followed through on something that I've only ever imagined before.  Sometimes in the tiniest, briefest moments of fear, sometimes in full-blown nightmare, sometimes in wistful imagination.  There's been countless moments over the years where the idea existed as a possibility.  And for the most part, I spent ten full years pushing it away.

Because I was attached to the story.  Because I wanted to be right, to have done things right and made the right choices.  Because it was comfortable and I got complacent.  Because changing your entire life around is the scariest thing we can possibly do as humans.

But here's the thing about the complacent life, or being right, or holding on too tightly to our story: it robs us of the fundamental purpose of being here, of living these lives.  I think we're here- wait for it- to grow.  That's all.  Not to reach some milestone or claim some achievement but simply to grow.  To become better versions of ourselves, more fundamentally us.

And here's the thing about growth: it requires change.  And, to use the plant analogy, a lot of manure.

I see lots of memes with pictures of sunlight shining through droplets of water.  Of the freedom we feel when sailing on the wind.  Of the vistas and grand views out on the vast expanses.  I don't see a whole lot with pictures of dirt, soil, shit.  I don't see all the dark, unintended mistakes being touted as what we want, what to look for.  But isn't that exactly what we grow in?

Don't we, like all those seeds buried deep in the dark places, feed off of the stuff that we bury?  The truths we don't want to recognize?  The actions we are too scared to take because they force us into the unknown where everything we hold dear is lost to us in order to make way for something else?

I began this process however long ago literally begging for change.  Asking the universe for my life to be taken in the direction it needed to go, no matter how frightening the prospect was, of how many things would be pulled out of alignment in order for that to happen.  And yet I find myself somewhat shocked with how quickly everything has changed.

I can't say that I'm standing on the edge of a great precipice because I've already taken the leap- I'm out of the house, out of the relationship I've been so firmly rooted in for the past decade, looking for a new pace, new daily lifestyle, new everything.  And there is fear, certainly.  And there is grief from so many harsh realities i'm facing head-on about my past.

But damned if there isn't growth. 

One Moment

There is light around the edges of my body.
It makes my form uneven, soft, out-of-focus.
As if the barriers of me
could melt away completely
Leaving me to bleed out
of the margins.
Out of my own bounds.

I float, like smoke
weightless
but not without substance.

I am made of the same materials as the either.
What makes it
makes me.

And I am free
boundless
limitless
Perfect.

And whatever may happen
after this moment
When the confines
and harsh rules
of reality kick in
I will still be here.
Boundless.
Limitless.
Perfect.
Just as I am.

Community

We were talking this morning about the idea of tribes.  Complex socialialogicical concepts of tribal identity, energy enhancement, radiating archetypes and all the other ethereal ideas.  And we struck upon the question of tribe vs. community.  I have some thoughts.

Tribes, in my mind, evoke images of collectives of people.  People who are working together for a shared goal, hoping for a shared outcome.  People who are defined largely by their shared concept of self, defining who they are by comparing and contrasting with who they are not.  People who are supported beyond the scope of what we hope for while simultaneously threatened with judgement for not meeting the unstated rules of conduct.

And I thought about how limiting that can be, how stifling, how scary.   How that can enhance qualities in humans that are dangerous to enhance.  Or how it can diminish, or force one to hide the qualities that ought to be explored, considered and practiced.  It's a phenomenon I've observed countless times, and will, undoubtedly, experience again.

But here's what the experts say:  they're not working.  They're not helping us- they're prohibiting us from living our authentic will, our true purpose.  It's not that they're bad in and of themselves, it's that they're remnants of a time long gone, a structure that no longer matches reality.

In this global world, we disservice ourselves by identifying as only one tribe, as only one identity.  In this world of interconnected ideas, shared concepts, and universal experiences the old world rules don't apply.  And trying to conform to them doesn't work.

And that got me thinking about the idea of community.  I see community as similar but more diverse. In a community, we collect around shared goals but respect the individual differences of each member.  The different religions, ethnicities , languages, cultures.  We see those differences and respect them while still appreciating what each individual can contribute.  It's not about conforming, it's about exploring, wondering, being curious.

And I've thought, that while I may not have a tribe, I do have many communities.  And I am incredibly, incredibly lucky to have them.

Creating

Fragments and visions and dreams.  Random memories that invade the space between your ears when you're not paying attention.  A poem someone you loved once read to you.  Pain.  Love.  Confusion.  Passion.  That fuzzy feeling that comes from a few too many drinks.

And in the quiet, in the pause, in the moment between events- there are sparks.  There is kinetic energy.  There is raw, uncontrollable power.  There is the essence of the soul.

It comes out in rapid-fire brush strokes on colorful canvas.  It comes out as words placed in careful sequence on blank pages.  It comes out as guitar chord progressions and experimental sounds and heavenly movements of the body in the elaborate, infinite dance of life.

It is made of the intangible and visceral.  The imagined and the deeply felt.  The fantastical and all too painfully real.  And it is the essence of the soul that creates it.

One Step at a Time

We've all been in crisis situations where we've heard this phrase.  I've advocated people do this countless times.  I've said it offhandedly, just tossing it out as a shared understanding, a flippant saying everyone knows.  I've offered it as a genuine, meaningful piece of advice with all the empathy I can muster behind it.  And I've said it to myself, over and over again when getting overwhelmed.  But for the life of me, I'm not sure if I've ever done it before today.

One step at time got me up a flight of stairs when my legs felt like they would buckle underneath me.  One step at a time kept me breathing through the constant threat of hyperventilation.  One step at time checked off tasks one by one when the simplest requirement was so overwhelming my mind panicked in response.

And I had to talk myself through it, every single step.  "You're just going up the stairs, that's all you're doing."  "You're just breathing, that's all you're doing."  "You're just shampooing your hair, that's all your doing."  Just.  Just.  Just.  Because anything more was impossible.

I have to believe there will ultimately be value in this.  I have to believe my empathy will be stronger, my caring more genuine, my understanding improved.  I have to believe that this is how growth happens.  Because that belief keeps me taking those steps, one step at a time.

The Things We Keep

A box of old photos, the ones that never made it into the scrapbook
despite having purchased lovely, leather-bound albums
in which to place them.

An old bag of shoes that were meticulously collected,
worn once,
and forgotten.

The remnants of that party
the one where you researched
and decorated with unusual, beautiful items
that you never could bring yourself to throw away.

A suitcase full of clothing-
switching out the winter or summer wardrobe.
At least,
that was the plan.

So many boxes, so many memories
the mind reels from the strain of collecting them all
considering them all
loving them all.

While the life lived that is catalogued here
suffers.

Pain

Every cell aches, fears
body rejects the future
no safety from pain.