“Sometimes, I need only to stand wherever I am to be blessed.”
#aftertherain #poetryinmotion
Trailblazer.
“Here’s the truth that you have to wrestle with: the reason that art (writing, engaging, leading, all of it) is valuable is precisely why I can’t tell you how to do it. If there were a map, there’d be no art, because art is the act of navigating without a map. Don’t you hate that? I love that there’s no map.”
When I saw this at Point Reyes, I went the opposite way. #trailblazer
The Type-A part of me that secretly loves structure and to-do lists and schedules to follow is constantly at odds with the artist/creator side of myself that loves the words freedom and flow and feels stifled by timelines and objective goals.
It's all about balance, I suppose. I'm learning this on a daily basis- that there is always more than one way to approach a problem, to find another solution, to course-correct and overcome the inevitable obstacles that present themselves on the path. I'm learning to let go of what I've trusted (structure), and navigate without a map.
It's hard. But here's the honest truth- I was never good at reading maps anyways.
Trudging Along.
“So when we write and begin with an empty page and a heart unsure, a famine of thoughts, a fear of no feeling- just begin from there, from that electricity. This kind of writing is uncontrolled, is not sure where the outcome is, and it begins in ignorance and darkness. But facing those things, writing from that place, will eventually break us and open us to the world as it is. Out of this tornado of fear will come a genuine writing voice.”
Spotted on the stairs of Berkeley Bowl West. Advice for both life and writing.
Arranging the Pieces.
“Arrange whatever pieces come your way.”
Diving into the steamy pool as the clock hits 6am means only one thing- my writing time (morning pages) and meditation have been shifted even earlier, to an ungodly hour that starts with a 4. But I've been consistently doing both of these long enough in the morning to understand their inherent value, and skipping any one of the two, or even both (gasp!) is unthinkable. I'm thankful I've developed them into my morning routine that they are now as habitual as brushing my teeth and lotioning up after a shower.
I'm listening, a lot. Propped up with my pillow behind my back, legs crossed, with sleepy eyes and the covers shrouding my open palms, I'll just breathe. In. Out. In. Out. I find it interesting how ideas will just drop into me, stay for awhile. And I'll notice them, tuck them away, and focus again on my breath. In. Out. In. Out.
From a bird's eye view of the past few months, I am fascinated how people, situations, and opportunities have emerged in the most exciting and creative of ways. Lots of pieces, different shapes and colors and textures, and here I am taking whatever it is that shows up in my life, and arranging it in such a way that best fulfills my dharma in this big and beautiful world.
It would be just as easy to take those same pieces and say, "It's impossible," or "I can't do that," or blame the economy, other people, or come up with a million different excuses to keep myself from fulfilling my destiny. But perhaps it's the inner artist in me that sees these independent pieces and wants to fit them together in a creative and meaningful way- one that will ultimately be of service to those around me.
This same approach applies in the kitchen. Yesterday I looked at the kabocha squash resting on the counter, noticed the kale in the fridge staring me straight in the eyes, the $3 organic red bell pepper begging me not to go to waste, and the forbidden black rice greeting me as I opened my top cupboard door. So I took those pieces and arranged them together in one of the most delicious meals.
Roasted kabocha squash stuffed with forbidden black rice, wild rice, kale, onions, red bell peppers and shiitake mushrooms.
How are you arranging the pieces in your life?
Treading versus Swimming.
“Promise me you will not spend so much time treading water and trying to keep your head above the waves that you forget, truly forget, how much you have always loved to swim.”
Sunrise swim lessons in life.
Today was an extremely full day, so I knew what I had to do this morning- head straight to the pool for some active meditation. There's something so calming and womb-like about the water pre-dawn, when only the pool lights illuminate your arm stroke and the remnant stars greet you when you flip over and swim backstroke. This quote came to mind as I was swimming, anticipating the day ahead and realizing that it would be busy- yes- but filled with all the things that I had invited into my life and wanted to build.
When life is brimming over with activity, it's easy to feel as though you're drowning…but remember that you are constantly curating your own life, and at the end of the day, if you're following your passion, it becomes easier to find your rhythm and glide towards your destination.
And just like in the pool, I know that relaxing into it versus thrashing around, is the more sustainable, long-term, preferred way to move across the water. I'm hoping that even in the future when 'busy' starts to boil over, I'll always opt for the smooth and graceful stroke above water. And I'll be sure to occasionally flip on my back once in awhile to enjoy the view of the glimmering stars.
That Smile.
“It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living.”
Las Trampas sunrise...
Lately I've realized that as I walk down the street and pass strangers, I naturally smile, unaware that I'm actually smiling, until they reciprocate with a genuinely happy smile. My lips turn up into an even wider grin for such a beautiful and free exchange of unsolicited love.
Someone once told me that outside Oprah's makeup room hangs a sign that says, "Please take responsibility for the energy that you bring into this space." All life is energy and we are transmitting it at each second. We are all beaming signals like little radio frequencies, and the world is responding in kind. I believe this, and it applies not only for a make-up room, but for all the rooms in our lives.
As Preston Smiles (no pun intended) would ask, "What would love do in this moment?"
It's always a good question to ponder. And while you're thinking about that, smile. It makes the world a sunnier place.
Casting Out the Line.
Seen from my climb today up Calaveras...
After an amazing solo bike ride (Oh, how I've missed you, mid-week miles!), I called my dad to ask him what he wanted to eat for his birthday dinner that I'm hosting on Saturday. I'd already heard from the rest of the peanut gallery what they wanted to eat, so I wanted to go straight to the Source, the Birthday Boy himself. He was fishing, so I got his voicemail, left my message and ended it with, "I hope you caught a lot of fish!!" He called me back a little while later, and apparently he didn't catch anything. Not.even.one.fish.
Waking up before dawn, packing up the car with gear, driving out to the lake…all for what? But I know that he's had many days like today, yet he still loves fishing more than I love riding my bike, and days like today are just part of the game, unfortunately. And at the same time, days like today will not derail him.
Yesterday I attended another open mic at Pegasus Books and a handsome fellow took the seat next to me. He inquired if I was going to read, and I shyly answered, "Yes." He looked down at my hands which were holding a book.
"You're going to read from your book?" he asked.
"Oh, gosh no, this is a book that I just bought," I stammered. "I'm reading this…" I wave a folded-up piece of white paper.
Today on my bike ride, I found, as I always do- that when the legs spin, the mind spins too. It got me thinking as my heart was pumping and the wind was blowing through my hair, how thrilling- yet also so unbelievably scary- it would be to one day be holding my own published book.
Fitting, since this quote came from the book I was holding in my hand, The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. What a necessary and appropriate tool for everyone to read.
And so, it continues. Just like my dad, my deep-seated love is what drives me each morning to wake before dawn, gather my gear, take a deep breath, and write. I can only hope that after persistently casting my line out day after day, soon enough, there will be a worthy fish on the other end.
Upcycling.
“I stand in the mist and cry, thinking of myself standing in the mist and crying, and wondering if I will ever be able to use this experience in a book.”
Me too, Erica Jong, me too.
Stepping Into the Arena.
It is late on a Thursday night and I become aware of the outside light and how dusk subtly unveils herself over this little town of Pinole. The air behind these cafe windows is cool and crisp, and I sit here inside cozied up in the back corner with my latte and journal, where I've been for hours, writing. My hair smells of espresso and I notice how the closer the clock ticks to 7 pm, the more I am racing heart and twisting gut and short inhales. I have come here to write, yes, but really, I've come here to read. To read my own work during open mic.
A lil' caffeinated inspiration...
I watch nervously as a man in a checkered flannel shirt stands up on the stage and strums his guitar. All I notice is his greasy hair and long beard and think to myself that he's the kind of person I wouldn't want to sit next to on BART. My mind wanders because I'm concerned that my piece isn't appropriate for this audience, and how I've never been to an open mic here. I wonder if it's too late to dig through the weaved straw basket at the front of the stage and crumple up the piece of paper with my name written on it and hide it away in my pocket.
It is always easier and safer and more comfortable to hide.
My thoughts are interrupted by an awkward silence. Then a strum. The guitarist has forgotten his lyrics. He fumbles around. We wait in anticipation. He finds his rhythm again and we all relax in our seats. Suddenly, I ignore the beard and the strange genre of music and I just see him- in all of his imperfection- and recognize his humanity, rawness and vulnerability on that stage. I recognize beauty. I hear myself clapping louder than the others around me because I am applauding his ability- more than anything- to show up and share his truth with this world.
Then, it is my turn and I feel the eyes on me as I walk towards the stage, adjust the microphone and sit on the wooden stool. I look out into the audience and am greeted with the eager eyes of young and old, men and women. I take a deep breath and my heart feels a strange calmness as I speak- these words that were conceived in the depths on my journal pages, words so near and dear to my heart that for the first time are being birthed out into the world, gasping for life-giving breath as they are caught and received and cradled by this captive audience.
I ignore my shaking legs and sweaty palms and smile in an effort to steady my voice. I continue to read, "Perhaps things aren't falling apart, maybe they are falling together," and I hear a voice from the darkness rumble, "HELL YES!" and suddenly it is no longer 'me' up here and 'them' out there- we are all connected. This umbilical cord of words allowing them to hear my truth, my heartbreak, my hope and I just pray from underneath the warm spotlights that somehow these words will offer a light to direct someone back home.
I breathe a sigh of relief when it's over, and I don't really hear the applause, I am marinading in my own feelings of sheer joy, for choosing courage over fear. A woman grabs my hand as I make my way back to my seat and says, "Thank you for sharing your words," and that alone makes it all worth it, stepping into that arena, daring greatly.
The guitarist comes up to me at the end of the night as he is walking away, we exchange affirming words and he tells me, "I really, really enjoyed your poem." And I nod graciously and think about how all of life is poetry- some of the lines ebb and flow and some don't rhyme at all, but somehow it all still works. I feel light and fluttery and alive. Suddenly, the room feels more expansive and I am aware of how spacious the world feels when you can freely express who you are, no longer bound or imprisoned by what other people will think.
We all have a unique voice and talents and words and stories to share with the world. Fear paralyzes most of us, but regardless of that, we must step into the arena, to dare greatly instead of looking in from the outside, wondering what would have happened if we actually showed up for our own lives. You'll find that once you enter into the arena, even though failure may still exist, you will experience a deeper contentment and freedom and respect for yourself.
The beauty of this Truth is that you don't have to write your name on a piece of paper and drop it into a basket, waiting for it to be called.
And you're not limited to only five minutes. Your entire lifetime can be your open mic.
We're all in this together. And if you forget, just look up. I'll be the one clapping the loudest from the back.
THINK.
I've learned lately how powerful our words can be. As a little girl, I loved the book "Silver Boxes" by Florence Littauer. It was such a strong visual that our words should be like little silver boxes with bows on top, making the receiver feel loved and warm.
Yesterday I spotted this on the trail and it seemed oddly out of place- bright pink letters splashed across a pipe, tucked underneath the moss and leaves of the dirt trail. But it caught my eye, and made me pause. Which is so valuable in this life where we are constantly rushing around, grabbing our coffee and not making eye contact with the barista and jabbering on our phones and erupting reactively with hurtful words that somehow slipped out of our mouths in the moment- so fast that we couldn't catch or retract them. And like arrows, they had already pierced the heart of the listener, spreading their poison into the veins.
So before you speak, THINK:
Is it True?
Is it Helpful?
Is it Inspiring?
Is it Necessary?
Is it Kind?
This is a good litmus test. Because our words form our thoughts, which ultimately turn into action.
So even if it seems as unnatural and out of place as those bright pink letters smack dab in the middle of a trail, try it. THINK before you speak. Who knows, the words you speak into someone may be the tiny acorns of life, and years later when you revisit that trail, you'll see how that mighty oak tree really did grow.
Yesterday I spotted this on the trail and it seemed oddly out of place- bright pink letters splashed across a pipe, tucked underneath the moss and leaves of the dirt trail. But it caught my eye, and made me pause. Which is so valuable in this life where we are constantly rushing around, grabbing our coffee and not making eye contact with the barista and jabbering on our phones and erupting reactively with hurtful words that somehow slipped out of our mouths in the moment- so fast that we couldn't catch or retract them. And like arrows, they had already pierced the heart of the listener, spreading their poison into the veins.
So before you speak, THINK:
Is it True?
Is it Helpful?
Is it Inspiring?
Is it Necessary?
Is it Kind?
This is a good litmus test. Because our words form our thoughts, which ultimately turn into action.
So even if it seems as unnatural and out of place as those bright pink letters smack dab in the middle of a trail, try it. THINK before you speak. Who knows, the words you speak into someone may be the tiny acorns of life, and years later when you revisit that trail, you'll see how that mighty oak tree really did grow.
The Journey.
Some deep truths from Mary Oliver…
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice-
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stories.
But little by lithe,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save
the only life you could save.
Tonight I watched a segment with Tom Shadyac, who presented the topic of polarity- light/dark, life/death, abundance/loss. We are taught from the beginning to run from trouble, disaster, danger, disturbance- but in reality, this is the heart of all growth, of all of life. It's what makes us better artists, better poets, better writers, better humans. How can we understand abundance if we have not experienced loss? How can we fully grasp the beauty of trust if we haven't first tasted the sting of dishonesty? Mary Oliver shared with Tom Shadyac that her poem "The Journey" was birthed from one of her most darkest and painful experiences. And yet, out of such a dark seed bloomed one of her most famous poems. It's true, all of life, with all of its duality, is a living and breathing art form in one way or another.
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice-
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stories.
But little by lithe,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save
the only life you could save.
Tonight I watched a segment with Tom Shadyac, who presented the topic of polarity- light/dark, life/death, abundance/loss. We are taught from the beginning to run from trouble, disaster, danger, disturbance- but in reality, this is the heart of all growth, of all of life. It's what makes us better artists, better poets, better writers, better humans. How can we understand abundance if we have not experienced loss? How can we fully grasp the beauty of trust if we haven't first tasted the sting of dishonesty? Mary Oliver shared with Tom Shadyac that her poem "The Journey" was birthed from one of her most darkest and painful experiences. And yet, out of such a dark seed bloomed one of her most famous poems. It's true, all of life, with all of its duality, is a living and breathing art form in one way or another.