bam bam. That song is in my head. I don't know what I'm talking about.
Anyway, I've decided this blog has become too serious and morbid. Blech.
And anyways, I'm starting a new one, called the Joy Diaries. I'm going to start it verrrrrry soon.
It will involve making life more exciting, and I'm convinced that if we make ourselves happy, we can make everyone else happy (on some level) as well.
Whatever. It's about making the world a better place. Starting with numero uno. One day at a time.
Over and out.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Coffee Table
I've been practicing the art of non-attachment, though I'm not sure it's the best idea. Sure, not feeling tied to anything can fill you with a sense of freedom. I guess, at its essence, it would make sense that non-attachment is the true measure of freedom.
But I'm not sure I want it or if I can subscribe to it completely. Why prevent pain, or heartache? Because really, these sentiments are just part of life, part of what makes us human.
A few months ago I took my grandmother's coffee table to a consignment shop. Surely, someone in my family will read this and get pissed. But hey, I wasn't attached to anything, right? It's one thing to feel some sort of attachment to people or relationships, but material objects? Pheh. Whatever. Who needs 'em?
The thing is, this morning, I learned that the table sold. There was that possibility...
Now, this table had attachments. It was my grandmother's on my mother's side... The woman had so much style and class, and took pride in her environment. As my sister, so astute in the modes of interior design would say, the table was Danish Modern. Long and lean, built a little like a surfboard out of pieces of checkered wood, I'm sure the table was worth a lot.
And now it's gone.
After my grandmother's death, the table sat for a time at my sister's house. My mother and I used to get angry when Sis would let her kids use it as a coloring surface—complete with all the vibrant waxy debris. Later, when it was cleaner, the table sat in my living room, the one I shared with my ex-boyfriend in Baltimore. The one I was supposed to marry (or so we all thought).
Later he married someone else and the table moved to his basement—in Wisconsin, no less, before it suffered damage at the watery hands of a bathroom flood. And later, my ex used his own hands to try to pick up the pieces, and refinish the table back to a semblance of its former self, and ship it to me in Utah (where I had absolutely no room for it).
Forget the fact that it was long and lean, I had no space for it in my life, no room for such attachments to memories so saturated with pain and bittersweet nostalgia. I offered the table up to the Universe. If it sold, it sold.
And it did.
The news made me feel sad. Could this sadness be born of attachment? And the fact that another ribbon connecting me to my past has been sliced away? Perhaps.
I guess it's good to be free and clear. The road is open—though only for one-way traffic. There's no going back.
But I'm not sure I want it or if I can subscribe to it completely. Why prevent pain, or heartache? Because really, these sentiments are just part of life, part of what makes us human.
A few months ago I took my grandmother's coffee table to a consignment shop. Surely, someone in my family will read this and get pissed. But hey, I wasn't attached to anything, right? It's one thing to feel some sort of attachment to people or relationships, but material objects? Pheh. Whatever. Who needs 'em?
The thing is, this morning, I learned that the table sold. There was that possibility...
Now, this table had attachments. It was my grandmother's on my mother's side... The woman had so much style and class, and took pride in her environment. As my sister, so astute in the modes of interior design would say, the table was Danish Modern. Long and lean, built a little like a surfboard out of pieces of checkered wood, I'm sure the table was worth a lot.
And now it's gone.
After my grandmother's death, the table sat for a time at my sister's house. My mother and I used to get angry when Sis would let her kids use it as a coloring surface—complete with all the vibrant waxy debris. Later, when it was cleaner, the table sat in my living room, the one I shared with my ex-boyfriend in Baltimore. The one I was supposed to marry (or so we all thought).
Later he married someone else and the table moved to his basement—in Wisconsin, no less, before it suffered damage at the watery hands of a bathroom flood. And later, my ex used his own hands to try to pick up the pieces, and refinish the table back to a semblance of its former self, and ship it to me in Utah (where I had absolutely no room for it).
Forget the fact that it was long and lean, I had no space for it in my life, no room for such attachments to memories so saturated with pain and bittersweet nostalgia. I offered the table up to the Universe. If it sold, it sold.
And it did.
The news made me feel sad. Could this sadness be born of attachment? And the fact that another ribbon connecting me to my past has been sliced away? Perhaps.
I guess it's good to be free and clear. The road is open—though only for one-way traffic. There's no going back.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
StarsFly
It’s amazing the things that can wake you up to life
I just saw the stars fly
And until tonight,
My mood was sour
The world was bleak
All against me
And I fought the tears lining up behind
My eyes
But then
All it took
Was streaming light
Sparkles
Shining
Across the sky
And the homeslice moon
Sat perfect in silhouette
All the points punctuating
The blackness
I just saw the stars fly
And until tonight,
My mood was sour
The world was bleak
All against me
And I fought the tears lining up behind
My eyes
But then
All it took
Was streaming light
Sparkles
Shining
Across the sky
And the homeslice moon
Sat perfect in silhouette
All the points punctuating
The blackness
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Love part 2
A friend was recently injured, and like most everything, it got me thinking...
He's been in an induced coma, and I'm not sure if he's aware of the outpouring of love and support he's been receiving. (It seems silly to think he could be aware of it, but who knows if he can't be?)
I realized, though, how much we really all are loved. Before his accident, this friend probably had no idea of how his friends really love him. Because as humans, we're all pretty silly, because we never tell each other.
Take me, for example. I treated him normally, like a friend. But the last time I saw him, I'm not sure if I gave him a hug, or anything like that. Just a smile, and a "See you later." To be fair, if I'd told him I loved him, he'd have gotten 'the wrong impression.'
But when I heard about his accident, I felt sick. All I could think or want was for him to be better. I just wanted (and want) to see his sly smile again, and talk to him.
It brings us to the issue between ego and our true selves. In our light, heady world, we're afraid to tell each other how we feel, because of social constructs, or who knows. But underneath it all, there's a truer, different kind of light. The light that loves, no matter what.
And in my times of lonliness (because let's be honest, folks, aren't we all lonely sometimes, on some level?), looking back I realized that I'm never really alone. Because just like my buddy, there are probably countless people who love me, too.
I think I often associated love with understanding... As in, no one could possibly really love me, unless they truly know me. And it could take an indefinite amount of time to know me, and perhaps a special sort of magic to understand me...
But now I think that's all a bit of BS, because I don't know my friend really well. And I don't completely understand why he chose to do certain things, or whatever. I never tried to understand. But what I do know, is that the feelings stirred within me, upon learning of his accident feel a lot like love. At least a form of it. And in these ties of friendship, we are never really alone.
He's been in an induced coma, and I'm not sure if he's aware of the outpouring of love and support he's been receiving. (It seems silly to think he could be aware of it, but who knows if he can't be?)
I realized, though, how much we really all are loved. Before his accident, this friend probably had no idea of how his friends really love him. Because as humans, we're all pretty silly, because we never tell each other.
Take me, for example. I treated him normally, like a friend. But the last time I saw him, I'm not sure if I gave him a hug, or anything like that. Just a smile, and a "See you later." To be fair, if I'd told him I loved him, he'd have gotten 'the wrong impression.'
But when I heard about his accident, I felt sick. All I could think or want was for him to be better. I just wanted (and want) to see his sly smile again, and talk to him.
It brings us to the issue between ego and our true selves. In our light, heady world, we're afraid to tell each other how we feel, because of social constructs, or who knows. But underneath it all, there's a truer, different kind of light. The light that loves, no matter what.
And in my times of lonliness (because let's be honest, folks, aren't we all lonely sometimes, on some level?), looking back I realized that I'm never really alone. Because just like my buddy, there are probably countless people who love me, too.
I think I often associated love with understanding... As in, no one could possibly really love me, unless they truly know me. And it could take an indefinite amount of time to know me, and perhaps a special sort of magic to understand me...
But now I think that's all a bit of BS, because I don't know my friend really well. And I don't completely understand why he chose to do certain things, or whatever. I never tried to understand. But what I do know, is that the feelings stirred within me, upon learning of his accident feel a lot like love. At least a form of it. And in these ties of friendship, we are never really alone.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Love, Love, Love
I was just reading about love, and thinking how we’re all connected. It’s love that unites us, and makes us human. And I think at the soul of it, at the root of it, we’re all simple souls. It may not seem that way because people have a way of accumulating bullshit.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written—in the unprofessional sense. And I’ve been wondering if I’ve lost my voice. Writing for survival is fun, sometimes mindless, sometimes like an in-depth word game. I get a little obsessed with flow, though that usually just comes naturally.
But writing for writing… My voice is somewhere. Maybe it’s here, in this wondrous mass of interconnected humanity. I keep turning back to it. What makes life special, what makes it beautiful.
I love how love is unexplainable. There’s science, but really, there’s no science. Please leave the brain chemistry out of this. Love is the real magic, and it’s something we all feel, sometimes greater, sometimes lesser… But I think it’s always there, on some level. Often it’s a matter of whether or not we choose to acknowledge it.
I’m not sure why it’s so scary for some people. Though maybe some fear pain. Like Icarus flying too close to the sun and getting burned…
I’ve felt pain. But it always passes because I manage to find the light inside, and the woven, fingers of light that connect us…
I’ve been holding back for a little while. Keeping myself solo. Maybe I’m just taking it slow. Maybe I’m just enjoying ‘slow,’ and the sweetness of letting the world unfold. But I’m constantly filled with love—from my friends, music, brilliant sunshine, my dogs’ warmth and my horse’s whinny… I love love. And I am full of it. ;)
It’s not science. It’s just cool. Like magic.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written—in the unprofessional sense. And I’ve been wondering if I’ve lost my voice. Writing for survival is fun, sometimes mindless, sometimes like an in-depth word game. I get a little obsessed with flow, though that usually just comes naturally.
But writing for writing… My voice is somewhere. Maybe it’s here, in this wondrous mass of interconnected humanity. I keep turning back to it. What makes life special, what makes it beautiful.
I love how love is unexplainable. There’s science, but really, there’s no science. Please leave the brain chemistry out of this. Love is the real magic, and it’s something we all feel, sometimes greater, sometimes lesser… But I think it’s always there, on some level. Often it’s a matter of whether or not we choose to acknowledge it.
I’m not sure why it’s so scary for some people. Though maybe some fear pain. Like Icarus flying too close to the sun and getting burned…
I’ve felt pain. But it always passes because I manage to find the light inside, and the woven, fingers of light that connect us…
I’ve been holding back for a little while. Keeping myself solo. Maybe I’m just taking it slow. Maybe I’m just enjoying ‘slow,’ and the sweetness of letting the world unfold. But I’m constantly filled with love—from my friends, music, brilliant sunshine, my dogs’ warmth and my horse’s whinny… I love love. And I am full of it. ;)
It’s not science. It’s just cool. Like magic.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Hot Water Bottle
I’m going to be moving, soon. Somehow, I’m sad, yet I’m trying to pick myself up. I have to simplify—my living situation, my lifestyle, my life. It’s not easy, but I have a sense that once I get going, it will be a very freeing experience.
My current financial situation requires it, and though I’m sad, somewhere deep inside, I think I’ll emerge from this like the lotus out of the mud.
I’ll be moving from my large, bright condo to a small studio—basically a kitchen with a bed in it, attached to a barn. And I’m excited to trim away the excess, and be happy with what I have. The pending journey takes me back to a non-descript water bottle I enjoyed, in Kenya:
On a trip not too long ago, I stayed at a remote camp deep in the Mara. The camp’s entrance was adorned with bones and half of a freshly eaten zebra. Bats circled the dinner table, and the water smelled. We were told to keep our tents zipped all night, and not to emerge until daylight.
I was to sleep alone.
Perhaps because of the far-away-ness of it all, or honestly, I don’t know what, that first night at the camp, I was slightly homesick. I smiled politely through the dinner conversations, single amid the couples, and returned to my tent to sleep.
When I climbed beneath the scratchy, military-issue gray wool blanket, there was a hot-water bottle in my bed, under the covers. This simple gesture of hospitality nearly broke my heart. There, while I was biding my time through dinner, sitting idly beneath the circling bats, one of the Masai tribesman had come into my tent to place the bottle in my bed, to warm it… Their version of turn-down service, with the requisite chocolate. The hot water bottle was much sweeter, though, and I found myself holding it until I fell asleep.
The idea of Luxury is relative. For the Masai, it’s a hot-water-filled rubber sack, placed between sheets.
I look forward to growing into my simplicity.
My current financial situation requires it, and though I’m sad, somewhere deep inside, I think I’ll emerge from this like the lotus out of the mud.
I’ll be moving from my large, bright condo to a small studio—basically a kitchen with a bed in it, attached to a barn. And I’m excited to trim away the excess, and be happy with what I have. The pending journey takes me back to a non-descript water bottle I enjoyed, in Kenya:
On a trip not too long ago, I stayed at a remote camp deep in the Mara. The camp’s entrance was adorned with bones and half of a freshly eaten zebra. Bats circled the dinner table, and the water smelled. We were told to keep our tents zipped all night, and not to emerge until daylight.
I was to sleep alone.
Perhaps because of the far-away-ness of it all, or honestly, I don’t know what, that first night at the camp, I was slightly homesick. I smiled politely through the dinner conversations, single amid the couples, and returned to my tent to sleep.
When I climbed beneath the scratchy, military-issue gray wool blanket, there was a hot-water bottle in my bed, under the covers. This simple gesture of hospitality nearly broke my heart. There, while I was biding my time through dinner, sitting idly beneath the circling bats, one of the Masai tribesman had come into my tent to place the bottle in my bed, to warm it… Their version of turn-down service, with the requisite chocolate. The hot water bottle was much sweeter, though, and I found myself holding it until I fell asleep.
The idea of Luxury is relative. For the Masai, it’s a hot-water-filled rubber sack, placed between sheets.
I look forward to growing into my simplicity.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
No Limits
It’s been a while since I’ve posted. I’ve been writing so much for others, that I haven’t written any of my own stuff. It’s almost like I’ve been silenced, lost in the construct of forming others’ sentences and thoughts.
It’s OK, and I’m happy to have work. But I want to start writing my own words, too, so that I can create my own essays and books. And yes, get back on my ‘sweet life’ track.
So here’s a kick-start:
I recently started painting and realized that for most of my life I’ve been setting my own limits by defining myself by two simple things: Skiing and writing. More to the point, I’ve been limiting myself by setting out to define myself, period.
It’s so easy to identify ourselves through our activities, and I chose the two at which I excelled. I’d always say I couldn’t do anything else. I was just a girl, just a skier. Just a writer.
And so, when I mixed colors in the palette to form just the right shade of green, and played with brush strokes to create texture on the canvas, I discovered I could paint. Where had this been all my life? It was fun, it was release, it wasn’t bad, it’s on my wall.
I realized that by telling myself and the rest of the world stories (“I’m not good at art, I suck at math,”) and showing up through my defined identity, I’d been holding myself back. Who are we, truly? We’re ever evolving and we have to be open to that. And we have to stop selling ourselves short, so that we miss out on life.
So who am I? Well, a girl who can ski, and write and paint… And I love horses and the way the grass smells after the rain, curling up with my dogs, and heck, hiking. I hike. Who are we truly? Just people, I guess. And we can do anything.
It’s OK, and I’m happy to have work. But I want to start writing my own words, too, so that I can create my own essays and books. And yes, get back on my ‘sweet life’ track.
So here’s a kick-start:
I recently started painting and realized that for most of my life I’ve been setting my own limits by defining myself by two simple things: Skiing and writing. More to the point, I’ve been limiting myself by setting out to define myself, period.
It’s so easy to identify ourselves through our activities, and I chose the two at which I excelled. I’d always say I couldn’t do anything else. I was just a girl, just a skier. Just a writer.
And so, when I mixed colors in the palette to form just the right shade of green, and played with brush strokes to create texture on the canvas, I discovered I could paint. Where had this been all my life? It was fun, it was release, it wasn’t bad, it’s on my wall.
I realized that by telling myself and the rest of the world stories (“I’m not good at art, I suck at math,”) and showing up through my defined identity, I’d been holding myself back. Who are we, truly? We’re ever evolving and we have to be open to that. And we have to stop selling ourselves short, so that we miss out on life.
So who am I? Well, a girl who can ski, and write and paint… And I love horses and the way the grass smells after the rain, curling up with my dogs, and heck, hiking. I hike. Who are we truly? Just people, I guess. And we can do anything.
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