Full-Color, Full-Contact.

Age 4. Already an artist and performer.

Do you ever recognize themes from your childhood? Last night as part of my Minimalist Challenge, I spent two hours combing through boxes containing important and sentimental documents from preschool through high school. Scripts from school plays I acted in, awkward school photos, drawings, honor roll certificates, newspaper clippings, piano recital programs. Even my 8th grade graduation speech, neatly handwritten on 3x5 cards was tucked neatly inside. 

I sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by the tangible record of my life. Term papers that attempted to answer big questions like "who I am" and "the three things I want to have as an adult." (A big family, a lot of money, and to be a doctor or a lawyer, for the curious ones). Quite a big task for an eight year-old girl who loved the monkey bars and tap dancing. My 2nd grade teacher candidly wrote on the side of my report card- "Julianne is artistic and creative. She can, however, continue to show improvement in her mathematics." Still true.

But my drawings! Those were so fun to look through. I came across at least 10 pictures of rainbows that I'd drawn between age 4 up to the 5th grade. They evolved from thick, uneven smelly-pen rainbow lines to more sophisticated ones with gradual, even arches carefully shaded in with colored pencils.

Recently I've had conversation with friends about what I want. We all arrive on this planet with an artist's palette full of colors. Lately, I feel like I've only been painting with gray. But now I have this deep desire to use ALL the colors I've been given. I want to bring more beauty into the world. I want to live a full-color, full-contact life. Meaning being open and expressing all that I can offer. Not afraid to rub up against the unknown and the mystery.

Highway 1, Big Sur Coast

I'm still in love with making rainbows. Except this time I'm taking it off the paper and making the world my canvas. Think about all the colors you have, too. It's not about smelly-pens anymore. It's bigger. We have the chance to make art with our lives.

Creating Deliberate Space.

Upper and Lower Yosemite Falls, Yosemite National Park

Have you heard of the Minimalist Challenge? Here's how it works- on Day 1, you get rid of one thing. On Day 2, it's two things. If you continue this pattern, at the end of 30 days, you would've removed 500 unnecessary items from your life. 

I'm more than halfway through this challenge. I've given away bags of clothes and shoes. Donated stacks of CDs and books that no longer inspired me. Deleted emails from ex-boyfriends. Shredded old bank statements. It feels so good. I feel lighter. The things that stay are ONLY those that spark joy.

My dear friend Praveena first told me about this Minimalist Challenge. Today at lunch I ask her what she's been learning so far from it. I love her answer- "It's only when you create space that new and better things can enter into your life."

The most interesting thing is how this concept and framework is permeating into other areas of my life. On Monday, I closed a door to a lovely side-job in order to make room and time for projects I want to grow in 2017. When more and more invitations and opportunities come our way, it's hard to say no. I am excitable by nature. I want to say yes to everything. But this is what I've learned so far: 

Sometimes you have to say no to something good to say YES to something great.

When we're kids, we don't understand this as well. We are shuttled from piano lessons to soccer practice to church functions. We do our homework in between. We are running on auto-pilot with our jam-packed schedules. There is little space. We have no real say in what we can or cannot do.

The good news is, we're adults now. We have agency over our lives. We can decide what stays and what goes. It's only when we've intentionally cleared space in the forest of our lives that we can recognize and welcome in new opportunities, new forms of beauty. The things and people that make us come alive. The things that matter. The GREAT things.

Love the Details.

“We are important and our lives are important, magnificent really, and their details are worthy to be recorded. This is how writers must think, this is how we must sit down with pen in hand. We were here; we are human beings; this is how we lived. Let it be known, the earth passed before us. Our details are important. Otherwise, if they are not, we can drop a bomb and it doesn’t matter. . . Recording the details of our lives is a stance against bombs with their mass ability to kill, against too much speed and efficiency. A writer must say yes to life, to all of life: the water glasses, the Kemp’s half-and-half, the ketchup on the counter. It is not a writer’s task to say, “It is dumb to live in a small town or to eat in a café when you can eat macrobiotic at home.” Our task is to say a holy yes to the real things of our life as they exist – the real truth of who we are: several pounds overweight, the gray, cold street outside, the Christmas tinsel in the showcase, the Jewish writer in the orange booth across from her blond friend who has black children. We must become writers who accept things as they are, come to love the details, and step forward with a yes on our lips so there can be no more noes in the world, noes that invalidate life and stop these details from continuing.”

— Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones

Metaphors in Nature.

Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens

The dahlias at this time of year are pruned down to mere skeletons. This plot of land resembles a cemetery, containing the secrets and sighs that are only released when Spring unveils herself. While others pass by convinced that there's nothing of value to see, I stand still here, enamored by this sight. I imagine what the same part of land will look like in June, bursting with magenta and coral dahlias. 

Seasons are the best metaphors for life. They teach us to recognize the beauty and lessons in the present moment, knowing that it too, will eventually shift and change. Without sadness, the experience of constant happiness would feel flat. Without emptiness, it's hard to appreciate fullness. Without a stark winter, spring wouldn't appear as vibrant and magical. For me, this dahlia garden in the dead of winter represents hope and potential and things that soon will be. Like you. Like me.

Hidden Hands.

I have been more attune and aware of how the right people are coming into my life at the right time. I sip on my almond latte in a corner table at Elmwood cafe, nose buried deep in The Diary of Anaïs Nin when a man approaches me. He looks at me, my furiously scribbled notes in the side margins, and sits down. "It's rare to see someone not on their phone or laptop here," he says. "I needed to know what you were reading. You're so engrossed in that book." We share stories, dreams, career paths. It turns out he leads creative writing courses. He invites me to join. Later that week, a friend who I'd lost contact with I surprisingly see again. We chat and reconnect, and the energy we exchange activates a part of my creativity in the form of poetry that I had forgotten about. Words flow freely again.

Some may call it serendipity. I am reminded of Bill Moyers' interview with Joseph Campbell about this subject. He asks, "Do you ever have the sense of being helped by hidden hands?"

I love Campbell's response:

“All the time. It is miraculous. I even have a superstition that has grown on me as a result of invisible hands coming all the time- namely, that if you do follow your bliss you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. When you can see that, you begin to meet people who are in your field of bliss, and they open doors to you. I say, follow your bliss and don’t be afraid, and doors will open where you didn’t know they were going to be.”

— Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth

My Flashlight.

My journal entry from a year ago, October 27, 2015:

Lately I've felt the need to experience life more- to go on more adventures, step out in the world, create stuff. I need more things to write about, more perspective. I need to fill the well. Right now I'm scraping the bottom, looking for water. It borders on pathetic. I need to get a life. I need new mountains to summit. New trails. More coastlines. More redwood tree canopies. More sunrises and sunsets. More books to give me a richer context and a broader vocabulary to describe the world.

I started journaling at an early age. My parents were cleaning out their house recently and stumbled upon my first journal. The simple words I recorded even at the tender age of five are still a true reflection of who I am- I love the outdoors and I don't mind long roadtrips to a beautiful destination.

After a long hiatus from journaling, and in essence, from confronting myself, I started again. I began consistently journaling almost two years ago after reading Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way." Every day for the past two years I've kept morning pages- unedited pages of my 'first thoughts'-- these ranging from my daily to-do list, my fears, new ideas for projects, current relationship issues, to big dreams and deep desires. It began as a daily morning practice at a time in my life when I was in the middle of a dark forest and struggling to find the path back home. Back home to myself, really. My journal was a flashlight. It still is.

To see how a life unfolds in organic and unexpected ways is precious. To witness your own growth trajectory in real-time, in your own handwriting, is perhaps the greatest gift of all. Since writing this entry one year ago, I have summited mountains, run along new trails, broadened my appreciation of the California coastline, and buried my nose in beautiful writing. I don't ever think I'll be done, but I'm appreciating how much life can actually be experienced in one year.

Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park, Big Sur

Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park, Big Sur

Ewoldsen Trail, Big Sur

Bixby Bridge, Big Sur

Russian Gulch State Park, Mendocino

Mendocino Woodlands.

HELL YES.

“The big question is whether you are going to be able to say a hearty yes to your adventure.”

— Joseph Campbell

Point Lobos State Reserve

One of the best pieces of advice I received this year came from Derek Sivers. Use this rule if you're often over-committed or too scattered:

If you’re not saying “HELL YEAH!” about something, say “no”.

When deciding whether to do something, if you feel anything less than “Wow! That would be amazing! Absolutely! Hell yeah!” — then say “no.”

When you say no to most things, you leave room in your life to really throw yourself completely into that rare thing that makes you say “HELL YEAH!”

Every event you get invited to. Every request to start a new project. If you’re not saying “HELL YEAH!” about it, say “no.”

We’re all busy. We’ve all taken on too much. Saying yes to less is the way out.

Calm and Clear and Bright.

“Like attracts like. Just be who you are, calm and clear and bright. Automatically, as we shine who we are, asking ourselves every minute is this what I really want to do, doing it only when we answer yes, automatically that turns away those who have nothing to learn from who we are, and attracts those who do, and from whom we have to learn, as well.”

— Richard Bach, Illusions

REVITALIZE 1/2 Day Retreat: Fall Edition!

Upper Sea Foam Trail, Kennedy Grove Regional Park

Take some time out for yourself before the busy holiday season begins with a 1/2 day of hiking, yoga, fresh air and a delicious plant-based lunch.

This event will provide you with the chance to slow down, unplug, breathe, and soak up the hidden beauty nestled in the Bay Area.

Lower Sea Foam Trail, Kennedy Grove Regional Park

DATE: Saturday, November 12, 2016

TIME: 9:30am - 2pm

LOCATION: Kennedy Grove Regional Recreation Area (6531 San Pablo Dam Road, El Sobrante, CA)

TENTATIVE SCHEDULE: Hike (2-3 miles) led by Julianne from 10-11am. Yoga taught by Praveena, certified yoga instructor, from 11-12pm. Enjoy a delicious and nutritious plant-based lunch prepared by two dietitians from 12-1pm. Discussion/Art/Creating (all materials included) 1-2pm

COST: $75

WHAT TO BRING: hiking shoes, yoga mat, towel, water bottle. Dress in warm, comfortable layers.

If you're craving nature, yoga, exploring your creativity and nourishing your body/soul with authentic community, then CONTACT ME to join us on this beautiful fall Saturday. We're looking forward to seeing you there!

The Scenic Route...

“Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.”

— Rabindranath Tagore

Summit of Mt. Tam, East Peak

It's almost noon. We've just climbed down Mt. Tam and I am secretly craving oysters. "You wanna go to The Marshall Store?" my friend asks. I love how he can read my mind. My eyes answer before my mouth can respond. 

The drive from Mt. Tam to The Marshall Store is only 27 miles, but it seems to take forever. The narrow roads curve between rows of Redwoods and the switchbacks make any passenger dizzy with nausea. I have the windows down and fill my lungs with the sweet scent of damp leaves after a storm. I tell him to take pictures out of the car window and squeal with delight when I see the sun's rays illuminate the burnt orange leaves. 

One of my favorite things about the fall season... contrasting colors and autumn leaves.

We've ridden these roads on our bikes and can recall every turn, climb, and crest of the road like a person remembers the curves of their first lover. We're now driving and descending down the road that we once climbed together on our bikes. Now in the car, I laugh and turn wide along the steep turns. There's one steep switchback I come across and look over- "Remember? This is where you told me to not ask anymore questions because you didn't want to talk to me (true story)." "It's just because I couldn't breathe." Every conversation and memory is stamped into this road.

Climbing up Mt. Tam

The terrain changes and opens up into the dry, stark hills of the Seven Sisters. I remember how horrible I felt that day on that particular part of the ride. With each "sister" my legs increasingly loaded up with lactic acid and it became more of a mental fight to get through each progressive hill climb. 

Seven Sisters. I forget which "sister" this was. Why not be an only child?!?

I tell him that it's so much better driving it this time. We both know I'm lying. It's just easier, not better. 

"They could've easily build a highway here," he says. "But I'm glad they didn't. This road puts us in the way of beauty." It is the most inefficient route imaginable, but we finally arrive at The Marshall Store having already experienced a full 5-course meal of all that nature has to offer.

Lunch at The Marshall Store. Delicious.

I think the same thing happens in life too. Some of the wisest and grounded people I know experienced confusing labyrinths early on, only to arrive at their destination full of wisdom and resilience. That crappy job they worked in their 20s, that failed marriage, the years raising kids alone, that move across the country. At the time it seems like a winding and inefficient route to the destination. But little did they know it was giving them the perspective and resolve they needed for later on. These narrow switchbacks through the mist and trees were their becoming.

Sometimes easier is not better. Sometimes the more scenic route is worth the extra time. Which makes your arrival that much sweeter.

What Are You Painting?

“Your body is not your masterpiece. Your life is. It is suggested to us a million times that our BODIES are PROJECTS. They aren’t. Our lives are. Our spirituality is. Our relationships are. Our work is. Your body is not your art. It’s your paintbrush. Whether your paintbrush is a tall paintbrush or a thin paintbrush or a stocky paintbrush or a scratched up paintbrush is completely irrelevant. What is relevant is that YOU HAVE A PAINTBRUSH which can be used to transfer your insides onto the canvas of your life- where others can see it and be inspired by it and comforted by it.”

— Glennon Doyle Melton

One of my favorite places to clear my mind and enjoy the beauty around me.

It's tradition to finish all of my coast rides at the San Benito House Deli in Half Moon Bay. A year ago I met Marie, the lovely woman who works behind the counter. We've since become pen pals. Every few weeks I'll receive some lovely photos that she's taken and has adhered to cardstock with her own personal message in cursive across the back. I happily created a few of my #100DaysofMaking cards especially for her.

She tells me that she's proud of my project. But she's also quick to add that I'm not the only one she sends letters to- "I write to older folks, those who are home-bound or in the hospital. Those who really need a lot of love." I ask how long she's been sending out photographs and cards to people in the mail. She smiles and her eyes twinkle. "30 years."

Marie makes the most amazing sandwiches at work. But after the deli closes and she heads home is when her real work begins. She is the most magnificent paintbrush I know, and raises the bar so high in loving people on a grand and magnificent scale. If you're in Half Moon Bay, drop by the deli and give her a hug. May the love she's poured into the world return to her tenfold.

What are you painting with your paintbrush? You are just as inspiring and have the opportunity to leave your mark on this world in your own unique way. As Neil Gaiman says, "And now go, and make interesting mistakes, make amazing mistakes, make glorious and fantastic mistakes. Break rules. Leave the world more interesting for your being here. MAKE GOOD ART."