A letter to: Myself seven hours ago

You’ve been wandering for quite a while now. You know it, I know it. The path through the forest seems to be taking a suspiciously circular formation; you think this because this seems an awful lot like the same mud hole you got stuck in last time.

I know what you’re thinking. What you’re feeling. You have become intimate friends with the self-deprecating gears grinding away in your skull. And by friends I mean, of course, sworn enemies attached at the hip.

You’ve come to the point where you’ve collapsed on your ass in the middle of a strange, cold wilderness, thrown up your hands and declared, “What the hell am I doing here? Why?” I know you have done and said these things, my love. I know because I was there with you, by your side and in your heart. Thinking you were alone, you were frightened and ashamed, putting on a proud, brave face whenever passersby came near, intent on their own twisting paths.

Amidst the wilderness, you felt your body had become an even more terrifying place, a war zone. Alien and uncomfortable, what should have been your home, your safe and sacred place, was nothing more than a reminder of all the mistakes, and all the left turns you made when the simpler path was to the right. And even in that moment, knowing clear and well, you turned left yet again.

“I am lost!” you sobbed, pounding your fists into dirt, into stone, “I am lost, I am lost!”

Stripped bare of all external defenses, you have guarded your heart well, finding it better to carry the heavy wall than to let it drop and leave the burden behind. Stronger this wall became, and heavier, until you were forced to slowly drag it behind you, pulling and straining, forgetting not only where you were going but why you were headed there. Frustrated, it was this moment your knees buckled under all the pressure, and the self-loathing you created.

But here is the beginning of your story, and the moment you open your eyes to gaze around at the wilderness you found yourself so hopelessly lost in. In the moment you realized how lost you truly were, you also discovered you knew exactly where you were. There was no other place you could have been, as you found yourself: dirty, exhausted, broken, disillusioned, and utterly, and completely REAL.

Dreams

The dreams I've had throughout my life have been very varied, and vivid. When I was a kid, I dreamed that Beethoven saved me from a fire by pushing me, on a sled, down a snowy slope. I've had very complex action dreams that resembled James Bond movies or video games. I've had dreams that have revealed inner wisdom, or revealed animal totems. And most of these have been messages of where I'm putting my energy.

This time of year tends to create a lot of nostalgia for me. Nostalgia a type of suffering, but is also a choice: a choice to slip back into the past and old habits, or to let them go. This year, my nostalgia has been the things my ex boyfriend and I used to do together. Not him specifically, but my memory of us at that point in time, and that feeling of coziness as the weather grew cooler. With that nostalgia has come resentment, I think. Old resentment that's dusted itself off to come out of last February and the months leading up to summer.

I dreamed that I had to go to his house to pick up something of mine. When I arrived, and he came out to meet me, I flew into such a rage, that I started hitting and kicking him. As much as I tried, I couldn't do any damage to him; I was just upsetting myself more and more. After he went back inside, I got ready to leave. But the window to the living room was open, and I could see him, his new girlfriend, and a collection of his friends that I knew and had met when we were dating, laughing and talking.

What is it like to realize that you are no longer a part of someone's life? Or rather, to wonder what it's like for them now that you're out of their life?
Where is that focus?
The external gaze will always find unrest, as it seeks to figure out the ego's placement in another person's story. In that sense, it's not about me.

But the internal gaze seeks awareness. In this sense, it is about "I," and where my focus has been the last few weeks. Returning to one's intention, always returning.

Transformations

I have about a half hour before yoga, so I decided to take the time and spill the beans. Have you ever spilled the beans? Sometimes they unintentionally tip out of a jar, or wiggle out of a hole in your pocket, squeezing, trying to find freedom.

Sometimes the beans sit there, waiting patiently in a bag on the kitchen counter. Kidney beans, white beans, black beans, garbanzo beans, all jumbled up, mixed in. After a while, after you watch those beans sitting silently, staring blackly, you reach out with a steady hand and in one swift motion, you yank the bag until it turns upside down and it all... showers down.

Now, granted, I don't have any big confessions, and it's nothing nearly so dramatic as cascading beans. But the changes in my life have been overflowing as of late. I truly believe that any event that causes us to stumble is only an opportunity and a nudge to let go of something that is no longer serving us.

Almost nine months ago, my relationship with my last boyfriend was ending. My back injury had flared up again, so I was in copious amounts of pain most of the time, and I was having a hard time getting excited about going to school every day. I was the heaviest I'd been in a couple years, which added to some of the physical pain. Around this same time, my mom discovered a yoga studio in Roseville. Her experience there was so powerful, she called me and said, "You've got to come to a class with me. I will pay for it, but you have to come." So I did; I'd been looking for a studio to join, but as a college student living off financial aid, my income was limited. After the first class, I knew I had to keep coming back. This was too important, it felt too right.

Fast forward to now. I've gone from almost 200lbs to 177 so far. My practice has blossomed, and by extention, my spirit journey and soul journey have found new momentum. I start Yoga Teacher Training today, and I'm the new studio manager for the studio I practice at. My mobility is high, my pain nonexistent, and I've found a home within myself, and within a community.

I'd say that's a pretty good first step.

Art Update

Since I recently graduated, I thought it would be a good time to give a little update on some of the pieces I've done in the last couple years. Enjoy!

I'm trying to get into the habit of sketching people when I'm out and about. I'm pretty solid at figure drawing but I can always get better. And gesture drawing is just fun.

Oh yes, that landscape painting class. I will say that my old apartment never looked this good in real life.

A large painting, about six feet by eight feet. Oils and house paint on unstretched canvas.

Part of a photo portrait series. I adore hands, largely because I come from a family who works with them a lot, whether it be construction, mechanic, or artist. Hands tell a story unlike anything else.

I don't have a picture of the actual piece on fabric, but this is a sketch for a piece I did maybe a year and a half ago.

My most recent painting, done about one year ago. Self portrait of me as a child. Unfortunately the colors in the photo do not look like the actual painting (which is 4x5 feet).

Analog photography print, self-portrait in character.

Right before I graduated I explored ink on fabric more. It's difficult to see the full impact but it's fascinating to me how the muslin moves, reacts to the ink (sumi and sepia), and becomes almost like stained glass against the light.

Hello, hello?

It occurs to me that blogging is sometimes like the creek bed that crosses over the property where my childhood house was. Sometimes it floods, and then it'll completely dry up for months at a time.

I think that accurately sums things up.

But I digress. My semi-recently single self has finally found her once misplaced inspiration and drive to write. Being single does help. Hell, breaking up with someone helps. There's nothing like tearing your life away from someone else's like a splitting cell, only to realize that oh, wait, there's all this time that I didn't have before. And lots of thoughts and feelings to take up that time! How convenient. But as I continue to remind myself, reflection is a gift not to be casually cast aside. In all my sassiness there is still reverence, which I think is a healthy balance.

Timing is a very curious thing to me. As I began to formulate a sentence that began my tale of joining a yoga studio, I remembered that my break up and seriously getting back into yoga both happened around the same time. It never ceases to amaze me how... appropriate it is when one cycle of life fades and another begins. Even as my lingering thoughts and issues with my ex trail like tentrils of grape vines, so much has happened for me in the last six months that it feels deliciously right to close that chapter with a big fat THE END. I think allowing oursevles that transition is important. It's closure, yes, but for me it's also a reflection on impermenance and centering. Creation, creation, creation. All I can do is sit in this swivel chair and shake my head. Such a powerful force. And beautiful, no matter how hard some times are.

Happy Valentine's Day.

I'm not a huge fan of the holiday, but it does bring attention and focus to celebrating relationships. But this year, I want to remind myself, and everyone else that it's also an opportunity to be mindful of your relationship with yourself. Keep some energy kindled in your core so you have a bountiful source to offer. Take a moment tomorrow to accept yourself for who you are, and just rest in that moment. It's not something we easily grant ourselves. It's not prideful, it's not selfish (but it is self-centered, self-balanced), it is turning towards the internal. A gentle reminder to be kind and nurturing to ourselves.

Caught up in the details.

How often do we dwell on the bad shit?
It's overwhelming sometimes. It is very easy to sink, down, down into despair and never resurface.
Life is hard. It only get's harder as time goes on, and the years roll by. But I've decided, this evening, to write a list of my favorite things. I haven't limited it to simple things, and I haven't limited it to sweeping life philosophies. Because when it comes down to it, my existence in this universe is multi-channeled, and I have the freedom to explore my desires, and to grab onto that which makes my life beautiful. What is your list of favorite things?




Showering in the evenings (not so late that my hair is still wet when I go to bed). The feeling of clean skin sliding under the covers is absolutely delicious. And if the sheets are freshly washed, all the better!

Recognizing the potential and opportunity in a painful situation, and finding the strength and confidence and desire to pursue that.

Reading before bed. It's a pleasure I rarely give myself. But it's wonderful when I do!

Stumbling across some old album you used to listen to as a kid/young teenager. Even if the music is awful (or if it still speaks to you now), it's a charming little flashback that unearths perspective regarding where I was at 13, and where I am now.

Yoga. Oh god, oh wonderful, wonderful spirit, I love love love yoga. Come back to the breath, always the breath. Breathing into the discomfort sends my distorted muscles and mind into strength and balance. And I've only brushed the tip of what's possible.

Figuring out that I've only just begun.

Falling into vulnerability, whether it be in someone's arms, or in myself. It's a beautiful and frightening place to be.

Opposites. Or more specifically, the delightful tension they create between them.

Finding the balance between my own perspective and another.

Discovering the spectrum of things.

Sushi. Good sushi. And ginger. I love ginger how other people love wasabi.

Sudden inspiration, and having someone who's kind and creative enough to be my wall to bounce things off of, and letting me be their wall.

Crying. Though not particularly in public. But there have been multiple times in my short existence where I've felt so overcome that sobbing feels a little like an emotional (granted, not as happy happy pleasurey) orgasm.

Being reminded that I don't have to take myself seriously.

Queer. Courage. Authenticity. The strength to call something by its true name.