Why I Write

I can’t sleep. It happens a lot. I am always able to fall asleep, I just have trouble staying asleep. After my mom died I don’t think I slept three straight hours for a few years. I always thought that was what it must feel like to have a newborn baby in the house, not that I had to do much of anything when I woke, just that during the day I felt endlessly exhausted from never getting more than a few hours rest at a time. That time in my life was also about when I started working for Starbucks and getting up at 3am. No matter what time you go to bed, 3am always comes to quickly and an afternoon nap is usually inevitable. Again, eight hours of sleep proved illusive again for many more years. The past year I have found myself waking up a lot in the middle of the night too, the bed feeling strangely empty and expansive. I try to wrap myself tightly in the covers but it still can always feel that great big cold expanse spread out next to me; like I might just roll over into all that emptiness and fall of the side of the world. Sometimes I try to hug a pillow for comfort but in the end it just usually leaves me feeling reminded of my own aloneness. In any event, the point here is that 3am and I are perhaps better friends than I am with most other hours in the day. And if we're going to be completely honest, I suppose maybe all these excuses for why I've been sleep deprived for years on end, are to cover up for the fact that I’ve just got too much going on in this damn head of mine to sleep restfully. So much anxiety and stress that it wakes me up in the middle of the night. I am hopeful that maybe if I start writing everyday and letting out some of the thoughts that are swimming circles in my brain, they will stop bumping into the concious side of my brain at night and waking me up. Maybe by speaking, or writing as it were, my thoughts down on a daily basis I will get a solid eight hours of sleep!!! Yes, it really is a that-kind-of-exciting, three exclamation points worthy, kind of thought.

In any event, the positive side of being unable to sleep is I get to read. Or write for that matter. Often times when I read before bed, or even during the day after work, I always fall asleep about two pages into the whole endeavor and it takes me forever anymore to finish one damn book. Lately I have been reading any of Anne Lamott’stuff of the non fiction variety that I can get my hands on. Right now I am reading Bird by Bird, Some Instructions on Writing and Life. It appears to have been published over a decade ago and before any of her other non fiction books, those about her thoughts on faith, were published. She seems to have been, at least in the publishing world, only a novelist at this point. In any event, there is one chapter called “Looking Around” which is my favorite and it is all about why she writes, the purpose. There’s so many wonderful things she says here and here are just a few...

“Writing is about learning to pay attention and communicate what is going on... Your job is to see people as they really are, and to do this you have to know who you are are in the most compassionate sense possible. Then you can recognize others. It’s a simple concept, but not that easy to do... I honestly think in order to be a writer you have to learn to be reverent. If not, why are you writing? Why are you here? Let’s think of reverence as awe, as presence in and openness to the world. The alternative is that we stultify, we shut down. Think of those times when you’ve read poetry or prose that has been presented in such a way that you have a fleeting sense of being startled by beauty or insight, a glimpse into someone’s soul. All of a sudden everything seems to fit together or at least have meaning for a moment. This is our goal as writers I think; to help others have this sense of- please forgive me- wonder, of seeing things anew, things that can catch us off guard, that break our small, bordered worlds. When this happens, everything feels more spacious... There is ecstasy in paying attention. You can get into a kind of Wordsorthian openness to the world where you see in everything the essence of holiness, a sign that God is implicit in all of creation. Or maybe you are not predisposed to see the world sacramentally...anyone who wants to can be surprised by the beauty or pain of the natural world.... Mostly things are that way, not that simple and pure, with so much focus given to each syllable of life as it sings itself. But that kind of attention is the prize. To be engrossed by something outside ourselves is a powerful antidote for the rational mind...”

Not since reading Emerson for the first time have I read someone who so perfectly captured the way I felt about something, about everything. And Lamott does this consistently. I find myself reading her books and thinking, “Exactly!” and wishing there was someone else here to be experiencing this revelation and assurance with me. In my own humble observation, Lamott has many a great thing to say, many a keen observation about the oneness of the world, but I particularily like her thoughts on the purpose of writing, of why we do it; on looking at the minutia and ordinariness of the world, and seeing meaning there. About seeing and describing in whatever clarity we can muster, the divinity in everything and everyone around us and making others who might not ordinarilly see it, recognize it too. Or making those who do, exclaim internally with wild excitement as I do when I read Lamott, that someone has finally described so acurately with paper and ink, a thought inside their very own head. I suppose all of this in the end, this desire to create meaning from the mystery and to startle people with beauty and awe of the world around them, to make them feel part of something greater than themselves and make them feel a deeper connection to the world and with others, is why I write. What makes me qualified to do any of that, I don’t know. I’m not really qualified at all I suppose, not anymore than anyone else out there... but for some reason it just feels right. And so with the advice of Rumi, I am following what feels right, letting myself be drawn by the strange pull of what I really love and trusting, or maybe, hoping desperately, is a better fit here, this strange pull will not lead me astray...

Namste

Taped

I have seen my family the past four days in a row. If you know me at all, you know that this is like, a world record or something. On my mom's side of the family my brother and I are the only people left and on my dad's side, in Oregon it's just he and us, plus the stepmom. Most holidays either my brother or I or both of us have to work so usually there is three, maybe four of us at best, celebrating a given holiday together. Well, needless to say, this Thanksgiving was different.


My dad's mom, my grandma Lou, lost her husband and my dad's stepdad this year at the age of ninety nine. This is her first holiday season without him and so she came out for two weeks for Thanksgiving. As a surprise, my dad's two brothers and their wives came out to from Colorado and California to surprise her. They have all been here, along with one sun-kissed, Justin Beiber-looking sixteen year old cousin from California as well and Los Angeles to be exact. We had Thanksgiving dinner with them at my dad's house and then Friday night all met at Meriweathers (my favorite restaurant, score!) for dinner and then on Saturday night went downtown for dinner and then took my aunt to get a now nationally famous, maple bar with bacon on top at Voodoo Doughnuts (she saw a show on the food network). Yesterday afternoon I met everyone for a big exciting Max and Portland streetcar ride around town so my grandmother could see more of the city and needless to say, she loved it. 


Family, its a funny thing. I've never known much of it and have always a sort of awkward relationship with most of them as I'm sure many people can relate to. Other than my parents and grandparents, three out of the four of them who are now deceased, the rest of my relatives I see every five to ten years and don't really know at all. They don't seem to understand or want to believe that I am gay and there is always awkward conversations about why I don't have a boyfriend. Politically and religiously we are on far extreme ends of the spectrum so any current events and politics are usually also not good topics to cover. One of the things I have always wanted most in the world is to create a family of my own. To have a spouse and children with them and to, although my upbringing was pretty darn good, create what I had and then some, giving my children every ounce of love I can squeeze out of me and helping create people who grow up to help make the world a better place. Perhaps much of the depression I'm facing at thirty has to do with the fact that I worry that I'm getting older and there isn't even a glimmer of hope at this point that I will ever have those things. In any event,  something happened yesterday that reminded me to be thankful for this odd bunch of family that I do have even if it's not the family tree I would have imagined myself to be clinging to at thirty. 


After a few hours riding around town the sun had gone down and it was starting to rain and we were on our last leg of our big exciting public transportation tour of Portland, headed back to Lloyd center to get in our cars and go our separate ways, and a man got on the Max and sat down near my family. My dad was seated next to me and my grandma and stepmom next to him and across from him my aunt and uncle. He was probably in his late fifties, early sixties and was I think, homeless. I could see he was thin and dressed in many layers but only when he sat down was I able to see the boniness of his knees jut out through his jeans and his thighs seem to be non-existent, burring themselves in the small scoop of the seat. He had grey hair and was balding in the back, his long hair slicked back away from his face. His checks were sunken in and he had deep wrinkles in his face and rough skin on his hands. His nails were trimmed short but there was dirt under them. I was glad at least to see he had a newer, comfortable and warm looking pair of shoes on and a giant down jacket. The most interesting thing about this man, at least from outside appearances, is what he carried, a suitcase. Most homeless people you see around Portland have sleeping bags or blankets or garbage bags or backpacks or rolling suitcases but this many had something that almost looked like a stage prop. It was smallish, about a foot and a half by two feet and boxy, completely square in shape. Each half, the upper and the lower were exactly equal in depth and it had a hard plastic handle on the top. It was a dirty, dingy brown in color and dented, the sides curved gently in. All of the corners and edges were covered with layers and layers of frayed duck tape indicating that this suitcase has probably been around as long as it's owner has and that he had taken great care to patch up it's sores and cracks quite diligently over time. In any event, the suitcase looked like something I've seen a hobo carry in a movie or a clown would pull flowers out of at the circus; I'd never seen a homeless person with a suitcase like this until yesterday. I don't know what this man's story has been, what unexpected heartbreaks and decisions brought him to be homeless and riding the train with my family yesterday, but his suitcase indicated to me that they had been on the streets together for many years, he and this small square bag. 

The part of this experience that really stuck with me, and the part that I really wanted to tell about this man, was how he looked at my family. Seated next to him was my blind uncle who wears glasses as thick as two coke bottles and squints incessantly and my overweight, disabled aunt who spent three months in the hospital this year after a bad car accident and now walks with a cane. This is at least how I'm sure they are often described, how the outside world sees them but they, just like all of us, are much more than they would seem to be from outside appearances and hold beautiful things inside of them. They are an odd couple indeed, both living outside the standard societal norms of what good people, valuable, worthwhile people look like. But they love each other dearly and have for over thirty years and I'm sure see and appreciate in each other all of the things the rest of the world may and probably does find flawed about them. As they sat on the train and rocked back and forth with each stopping of the car, they held hands and at one point my aunt rested her head on my uncle's shoulder and you could see her whole body exhale in the comfort of him. I watched the man with the suitcase sneak glances at them. I wonder if he had love like that in his past that he was recalling. I wonder if he was thinking that looked nice and he wished he had the same or if he was thinking about a woman he used to know in such a way. Mostly though, more than looking at them, he looked across the aisle at my dad. I'm not sure if my dad noticed, I think not, but I did. He watched my dad, who ran most of the conversation during the train ride, quite a lot. He and my dad are probably similar in age, both gray in the same places. My dad however, has less wrinkles because he's been well fed over the years and his cheeks and the corners of his eyes are plump. My dad was sporting some sort of fancy gortex winter coat from REI that probably set him back a few hundred and equally expensive clothes and shoes. He had around him a cadre of family that looked at him and listened to and responded to him. His mother and wife on one side, his child on the other, and his brother across from him. And although when I look around at these people I know the issues and struggles we all sometimes have in relating to one another and trying to figure out what being a family really means and should look like and find myself wondering what the hell any of us have in common besides blood anyways... I suppose to many people looking down onto this scene of six seemingly happy people, my dad would look like a king on a throne. I wondered, as the man with the suitcase watched my dad and studied his outfit and how he spoke and how we responded to him, if this envy or admiration for my dad's obvious wealth in life, not only materially, but more familialy (if that's a word), is what he felt. He seemed to have a curious, longing sort of look on his face. Not one of anger of of jealousy even necessarily, but one of wonder and almost... one of awe. 


This fall has brought quite a bit of heartbreak and disappointment to my life and I have felt at times like I am floating around the world in a bubble. Like the world and it's people, like color and sound and vibrancy are out there... and I am in here, wherever that is, invisible. I feel onside of myself, alone, quiet, watching and listening, but not participating. Like I'm waiting for the right moment to rejoin the world somehow if I can only figure out how to manage this. I go to church some weeks and I sit in the back and look at all the people around me and as the minister speaks my mind floats off into other places and I watch the congregants around me focusing intently on the music or the sermon and I wonder if they feel connected to the earth and each other in that moment, if they feel grounded in community, in love... or if they feel sort of like they have ear muffs and swimming goggles on and walls of plexi-glass around them separating their muffled and lonely reality from the rest of the world like I do. As I watched the man with the suitcase the other day study my dad and my family, I wondered if he felt the same way in that moment because I'm pretty sure I saw in his eyes, the reflection of myself. I saw those feelings of separateness and of longing for something more, for a deeper more meaningful human connection, for a yearning to be visible, to be seen... for what I think so many of us sometimes in moments of struggle believe everyone else but us has.


I wonder metaphorically speaking, we are all a little bit like this homeless man with a suitcase at many moments in our lives. On the outskirts of the world in our head and in our hearts. If we have so much going on internally that we find it hard to take off our swimming goggles and earmuffs and break through the choked bubble we live in to join the rest of the world and really live. For the man with the suitcase, I would assume many of his struggles are physical in nature; finding a warm place to sleep at night and a hot meal, on top of all the more mental struggles that people like myself face. I am blessed more than most people in the world simply to have a roof over my head, and yes, even a family of sorts and heck, I have a job and food in my cupboards and there are ten percent or more Oregonians who can't even say that right now. And while I have these things, I still have longings and dreams and desires for my life and have often as of late like I am watching the rest of the world live from the sidelines while I sit here in my quiet, invisible bubble racking my brain to figure out how in the hell I'm going to just survive until the next day, let alone thrive. 


To use an oft quoted saying, nobody ever said life was a walk in the park. And isn't that the damned truth. Some days, weeks, years, probably even decades for some of us, it can feel like one God forsaken struggle after the next. Why some of us are blessed with a family to go on Sunday streetcar rides with and some of us are not, I will probably never know. In my own assertion, there isn't explanation for a lot of the things that happen to us although we are absolutely the captains of our own ships and to much extent, are able to steer the course of our own lives. The trick to life is not what happens, but how we respond. This is the part we can control. I suspect most of us are just here trying trying to tape together the cracks and fissures that appear from time to time in our lives in an effort to hold ourselves together, just as the man on the train has appeared to have done so dutifully with his suitcase. By the end of our days most of us will have so many layers of tape holding us together that the person we once were or people we have been throughout or days is barely visible, each new layer of tape a fresh start, a new attempt at piecing back together our lives and closing up a wound after life throws us a curveball. We will likely be dented and bruised and battered looking... but we will have stories and memories and a lifetime of some extent in our hands. I wonder the stories and the memories that the man on the train's suitcase could tell, I wonder what memories are underneath each layer of his tape. May we all go forward with gratitude, recognizing all of the many blessings that we do have, the things that we have folded nicely and put in our life's suitcase and stop focusing as much on the things we feel like are missing, the things we used to carry along with us and miss dearly or the things we have always longed for, but haven't as of yet had. May we see in ourselves and in other people, beauty in all those neatly folded and rumpled things inside of ourselves, in all of our the many frayed layers of our existence and in the dents and bruises underneath it all and be thankful for them having made us who we are. May we try to be conscious and aware of those who eye the beauty of our lives from the sidelines and appreciate them for pointing out the blessings we may have been previously unable or unwilling to see ourselves and may we go forth with thanks, always trying to share with others in our abundance. 


Namaste.

They are saying it supposed to snow today. Light this evening and then more through the night and day tomorrow. School children and people that don't have any responsibility to the outside world or need to commute long distances are excited at the possibility and being surrounded by the quiet and peaceful glory of all that soft downy white. There's a certain sense of calm that comes with snowfall and around here it can be a welcome reprieve. Normally I would take extreme joy in being surrounded by soft blankets of rolling icy white dunes but this week I'm quietly begging God to hold off for a few more days so that I, and my employees, can get to work and feed a lot of very wealthy folks Thanksgiving dinner.

Yesterday I went to work at three thirty in the afternoon and finally left at four thirty this morning; I had to fight to keep my eyes open driving home. With the exception of three phone calls from work throughout this morning, I slept from five thirty until noon. Normally subsisting on a breakfast of a piece of fruit, cup of coffee and a few slices of toast, today I decided it high time to have a heartier sort of meal to nurse my achy back and the bloody feeling soul I'm sporting these days. I fed my bruised and broken heart a giant mound of pancakes, four of them to be exact, grilled slightly crisp with butter and drenched in a downpour of real maple syrup. I drank two mug-fulls of lemony french pressed Ethiopian coffee, some of my favorite, and watched the oil swirl in the top of the cup. I sat in silence and listened to my little red dog breath quietly, inhaling the world in and out slowly, and wondered what he worries about, what it is like to live a life in his body, in his world.

I have cried more in my life this November than ever before. I have probably shed more tears in the past four weeks than in all my other years combined in actuality. When my mom died I didn't cry much. I would have occasional breakdowns, only when I talked about her with anyone so I've mostly just tried to never do so, the showing of emotion always feeling horribly embarrassing and shameful on my part. I tend to be one that hides her true feelings from others most of the time and drowns her sorrows in something like a giant plate of pancakes with real maple syrup. But this November it seems that all in the world that can go wrong has and feels like whenever I manage to scrounge up a small spoonful of faith that it will get better after some upset, something else troubling occurs. The saying 'when it rains it pours' feels an understatement these days. I guess every cloud has a silver lining and one small lining amid this month's heartbreak has been the blessing of the reemergence of an old and endlessly true friend in my life. Yesterday she came over and she brought me pizza for lunch and we watched my favorite movie, Sleepless in Seattle. And at least three times during the movie, feeling swept away with my life's own recent love story gone horribly wrong, I sat silently and cried, tears billowing in the corners of my eyes. She sat gently beside me and rubbed my back and let me feel and be without question. The end of my nose is terribly sore this morning, flaky and red from having run so much from all the crying I've been doing. I look sickly, my face badly broken out and I've had three cold sores last week and my back has been killing me. I think my heartache and stress about all that's gone wrong this month and in the past thirty years really is starting to catch up to me as of late and show symptoms externally. A friend told me to breath in and out, to take it day by day and to have faith that over time, things will get better and I will be stronger. This is exactly what I would say to someone and I know that it was said with the utmost authenticity and love... but I'm having trouble having faith in anything these days, much less myself and my own ability to rebound and grow stronger.

I could write a novel here about all the failures and stresses that have made this November pulsate with sadness and heartbreak but I'll refrain. I'll simply say that it's bitterly cold outside and its supposed to snow. Its two nineteen in the afternoon and I'm still in my pajamas and I look an absolute disaster. I'm snuggled up under a blanket of down in bed with one of the few loves of my life curled up against my leg. He hasn't had a bath in weeks and sheds badly and normally I wouldn't let him sleep up here with me but today it's cold outside in the world and inside of me and I need the gentle comfort and warmth of his silent love perhaps more than ever before. I'm feeling more hopeless than I can ever in all my days recall feeling and find myself trying to just survive from one day to the next and not think about beyond then because then the tears and the stress and the feelings of unworthiness ensue. I wonder, isn't if funny how in the matter of a month, in love gained and then painfully lost, the world can seem to swell with joy and then so quickly after, seem to ring so loudly with sorrow? From my October 28th entry when all in the world felt happy and hopeful, how in the hell did I so quickly, arrive here? I suppose today rather than drown in my own feelings of inadequacy and disappointment and sorrow about what has transpired in my life between now and then, I will get up and I will take a shower and I will bundle up and walk the dog and I will drive to work and eat an apple in the car and I will serve the world and all the while I will be waiting anxiously to see if that soft, quiet blanket of snow returns early this year to quiet the world and blanket all of our hearts with familiar memories of home and if in its return, it will gently cleanse my soul and melt away some of this sorrow and heartache with it when it goes...

Namaste.

Where the Books Are

Books: the tradition of my people. Currently on my nightstand are the following:

Standing in the Light by Sharman Apt. Russell
This I Believe, a compilation of essays on people's personal philosophies
Three books by Anne Lamott; Bird by Bird, Traveling Mercies, and Grace (eventually)
Never Far From Home, stories from the radio pulpit, by Carl Scovel
The Barn at the End of the World by Mary Rose O' Reilley
The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde
The Girl Who Played with Fire by Steig Larson
and last but certainly not least, Singing the Living Tradition, the UU hymnal which I always keep close by.
Oh, and also close by are four to five issues of New York magazine, one US Weekly (yes, I am currently bowing my head in shame), one Poetry Northwest, and an old New Yorker.

Two of these books I go back to time and time again, three of them I have recently finished reading, and the rest are all in the process of being read or haven't been started yet (since six of them were just purchased yesterday). In the top drawer of my nightstand are about fifteen to twenty more books, most of whom have been shoved in the drawer because I am out of room on my bookshelf in the living room and have nowhere else to store them. Books and I have a long and sordid history. I usually am either completely obsessed with them and devour them in multiple numbers at a time like some literary drug addict, every chapter and book completed the next hit, or I find myself in a complete state of boredom; nothing seemingly able to catch my attention for long. Its gotten harder as I get older to spend as much time with my nose in the pages as I used to because I always seem to fall asleep two pages into the damned thing no matter what it is I'm reading. In college I had two dreams for my life after graduation: one, to get a dog (preferably a golden retriever) and two, be able to read for pleasure again. I was so excited to find my way back to non-text books again that I'm pretty sure instead of going out to celebrate my graduation with friends and/or family, the night of, I could be found in bed, stacks of books of every genre piled up around me, a deep grin on my face, and a light shining down upon me from above; after five years I had returned to my own person heaven.

I was thinking the other day about tradition and about the things we carry on with us from generation to generation. Unfortunately, much of my family's traditions died right along with my mom several years ago and there's not much of anything in my life these days that I would consider a tradition, except perhaps reading. My favorite memories from my childhood are of bedtime. Not only did they included the coveted backrub, they included the reading of a story or chapter in a book. My favorites were Mother Goose and Grimm at an early age and later Ms. Rumphius and Anne of Green Gables. Of course when I was quite young my parents would read to me but as I got older the tables turned and I would read to them. I still love reading out loud and am always, desperately and usually in vein, looking for a reason to do so. I used to silently pray in class that the teacher would call on me to read aloud, making secret promises to the Universe do all my chores for one day without complaint or to finish my homework early if only I would be called upon to orate to the class. At home when I read aloud at bedtime my dad would fall asleep every damn night and I used to get so frustrated with him that I would shake him and yell at him for falling asleep and he would drowsily apologize and perk up only to get heavy eyelids again a few minutes later. Only now can I understand how it was so hard for him to keep his eyes open as I, at ripe old age of thirty suffer from the same affliction of being unable to keep my eyes open after work on many days. In any event, this patter of him falling asleep and me trying to keep him awake long enough to listen to me went on until I was a teenager and I can't really recall if I did much reading during my adolescent years or not; most of them I have tried to completely block from my memory for multiple reasons including but not limited to my brief addiction Hagen Das bars and susequent weight gain in the eighth grade, bad (no seriously, really bad) hair that decided it wanted to be curly all of a sudden during puberty, and well, all the other usual trauma and drama associated with being ages twelve through eighteen.

Growing up my house was a quiet one. I can't remember how old I was before we got a television and when we did, it was a small black and white one. Of course by the time my brother and I were both teenagers we each had a television in our bedroom, I think this was a tactic our parents, who probably beyond frustrated with our smart mouths and surly attitudes, used to rid us momentarily from their lives. But the years before that television was never a focus in my house and it's watching limited to something silly like an hour a week. I think Saturday mornings may have been the only time it was ever on. And in it's absence, we learned to love books and to grow big imaginations and keep ourselves entertained with hundreds of other creative and active endeavors. And at night, if I couldn't sleep I always knew where to find my parents; in the living room in their assigned seats (more on that in a minute) reading together in silence. Today, this to me feels like home. When I think about them sitting there by lamplight, the sun having gone down a few hours earlier, sitting in the chairs my mother had re-stuffed and re-upholstered herself with a striped maroon fabric, quietly being in the world together, I can feel everything in that moment as it was. It was safe and warm and well, it was as much home as I've ever known, as much home as I could drink up in one giant sip. You could always tell my dad's chair because the seat was permanently lower than my mom's and I remember my brother and I used to tease him endlessly about this (funny the things you think are funny at eight). Sometimes after dinner but before bedtime my parents would sit in their chairs and draw us pictures of clowns and my brother and I would lay at their feet in silence, intently focused on coloring in our clowns just right. And my parents would sit and read the newspaper or the New Yorker or whatever book they were working through, occasionally lifting their heads to say something to each other and then quickly going back to their reading. I crave this quiet comfort, this safety, this long lost feeling of home today unlike I crave much else in the world. I miss being able to hear my parents quiet conversation from their reading chairs from my bedroom as I lay newly tucked in at night. I miss, oh god, I'm gonna say it... I miss... simpler times.

I feel quite anxious on some days that I'm thirty and don't have children or a family of my own yet; I always thought and assumed I'd have a couple of kids by this age like my parents did. I stress out that I don't want to be having children at 35 and be too old and un-nimble when my kids want me to play with them. I don't want them to be embarrassed about having the mom with all the gray hair (although, my mom wasn't old when she had me and still had lots of gray hair which I was endlessly embarrassed about so maybe this shouldn't be a concern really). But when I think about parenthood really, I think in the end its not about gray hair or what I'm sure will be my tacky clothes that embarass them or our house or anything else that my children will think of fondly in their adult years about their childhood, its the traditions we will share together. I think about the traditions that I want to pass on to them, whomever they might be, and top amongst the is the love of books, or reading I suppose I should say. I don't really care what they enjoy to read, so long as they enjoy reading. I think having a child that didn't like to read would be worse to me than just about anything... and I'm sure now that I've said that aloud, I will probably have one that doesn't. Damn. Anyway, I can't wait for bedtime stories, and to spend Sunday's laying on the floor in front of the fireplace with them in the winter reading and to see which books are their favorite. I crave endlessly the comfort of that quiet and safe place where all is as it should be and I can't wait to provide the safety to my children of  knowing where to find me after bedtime if they can't sleep; sitting contently with the newspaper or a magazine or good book (and hopefully, a spouse!) in my assigned seat. Yes, there in the company of my books and my family I will have in at least one way, come full circle and found my way back home.

Namaste.

Long Time Comin'

It's been months since my lost blog entry, literally. It's a strange thing for me, having gone so long without writing. Well, to be perfectly honest, on a few occasions over the past several months I sat down with a determined spirit and attempted to write something worthwhile but what it became on each occasion instead was just a long, random, uninteresting, rambling page of thoughts. Thoughts that I didn't post in the end, knowing that nobody would likely be interested in much I had to say and particularly not much about the comings and goings of my life as of late. In any event, here I am and here this entry is and here it will probably end up being much the same as the failed entries I described above.

But here's the thing, my fingers have been getting itchier by the day to reconnect with their long-lost keyboard friend. I have been reading like a fein lately and whenever I read more, I write more as well. It gets the old juices flowing I suppose you could say and this past month has been spent devouring every book I can get my hands on... and has resulted in me missing writing. A lot has been going on in my life in the past several months and I suppose the reason I've had such an incredibly difficult time capturing anything in words is not because I have nothing to say, but because perhaps I have too much to say. Too much to fit into a few neat, focused blog entries. Too much to say that might cause more hurt.

This is my life today: there's a sink (and countertops) full of dirty dishes in my kitchen. My toilet is about ready for a scrub... and the dog probably too. I am swamped at work and the to-do list grows longer by the day, the bare minimum ever feeling like it gets accomplished. I have exactly $1.19 in my bank account currently and have eaten more PB&J in the past few months than I care to admit (or desire to ever eat again). The dirty laundry is piled in the hamper in my corner and I am down to my last clean bath towel, my last few clean pairs of underwear and my last clean (matching) pairs of socks. Sadly, I couldn't tell you the last time my carpets were vacuumed, which is a frighteningly scary thought considering I'm pretty sure my dog sheds about ten pounds of dog hair every day. Oh, and speaking of the dog, I think he's been wearing his cone, or as I like to call it, Elizabethan collar, for months now. His allergies and OCD and chewing and skin infections have cost me hundreds of dollars at the vet and I live with endless, endless guilt about how much better his life used to be when he had two mommies caring for him instead of one who is alway burning the candle at both ends and feels on most days life she's almost, almost about to completely unravel. Speaking of hundreds of dollars, I think I am up to about $1500 in car repairs in the past month and a half. The holidays are coming and I am trying to get a team of about 50 people ready to prepare, package, organize and sell hundreds of thanksgiving dinners. Oh, and then there's Christmas after that. My hair is getting shaggier by the minute and sticking out of the back of my hat that I wear about six days a week, is what appears to be a mullet forming. I literally haven't had any sort of social outing with a friend, or group of friends, in several months and on many days, find myself quite possibly lonelier than I've ever been...

And yet, despite all of these things... on many days... hope abounds. I have fallen, quite unexpectedly, in love you see. It all happened at an alarmingly quick rate, one which several people in my life find unbelievable, but which nevertheless really did happen almost overnight. It's amazing how when the heart is able to love and give love in a free, trusting, and joyous way, how all of life's other trials and tribulations can seem to shrink down just a little bit. It's amazing really; I think God knew that I was on the verge... on the edge of something... of a breakdown of some sort... and that I needed and intervention to give me something, anything, to redeliver a few small bits of hope, a reconstitution of faith. And as luck would have it, grace reared her beautiful head when I least expected it as grace so often does, and along came love. A friend of mine and her husband just had their second child earlier this month but not so many years ago they met for the first time in the Peace Corps and eloped only a few months later. When I first told her about my new love she said to me that people at the time she met and married her now husband, people thought she was crazy but "when you know, you know," and she just knew. And well, as did she, so do I; I know. Of course, this is real life however and real life well, is generally not easy, nor that neat and tidy. Especially the things which are most important to us. We have to work for them, we have to wait for them, we have to pine for them and pray for them and work some more for them. As for this new love of mine, I wasn't looking for her or anyone to love really; I was quietly working on my own insides, on my own spiritual growth and really, still reeling from the ending of my previous relationship and reeling from the friendships I lost along with the lost partner and reeling from the negative numbers that came to my bank accounts because of said loss and reeling from a gaping loneliness and reeling from feeling abandoned or discounted or judged by some friends because of said divorce and there, out of the blue, in a completely unexpected time and place, came this person who seemed to know me and understand me in an unspoken way... and I her. And well, the rest is history. Except of course for the fact that she lives in another state, halfway across the country; this is that part about life never really, even in it's grace-filled and joyous moments, being completely neat and tidy. The past three months have been us making the trek back and for to see one another and today I am counting around 58 more days until I will see her again; she's coming for Christmas. Because of both of our career and housing situations, its virtually impossible for either one of us to pick up and move our roots to where the other is and so we survive on text message and phone calls and facebook chat and Skype and we miss each other and we have sad hearts and we ache and we cry... and yet and still we love and we say thank you to God and to the universe for the gift of the other and we keep the faith that someday a sign will come and the cards will fall into place and we will know what we should do and who should go where and how we should proceed so that we can (what feels like finally) begin the rest of our live's together.

This blog entry... and many others... has been a long time coming. I was scared to write a word about my life these days and about my new relationship for fear of being insensitive to the woman from my past relationship whom I still, despite her absence from my life, love and respect dearly even if she no longer does me. But at a certain point we all must, with our crumbled hearts in tow, move on in honesty and in forgiveness and in hope and in faith and in compassion for those we love and have loved. My life has changed in the past few months and in the past year in ways I could have never and would have never imagined even only a few years ago and aside from the sudden death of my mom, nothing I've gone through has been so heart-wrenching and lonely and feels as guilty and as not guilty, as right and as wrong, and as sorrowful and as joyous and as everything this past year has.

Perhaps one of the most unfortunate things about being alive and one of the things that I have learned again in technicolor this year, is that in life, weather we want to or not, sometimes we hurt people. That in order to truly fight for ourselves first, sometimes we have to be selfish and sometimes we hurt people we love and adore even when we don't want to. I am not perfect and I know that I have hurt people, I know that I have caused pain and sorrow and confusion in the hearts of people I love and that I have caused them to not love me anymore and this is a hard reality to live with. About a year ago I tattooed something on my arm where I could see it everyday as a reminder and as a way of holding myself accountable to myself. It is a Hindu meditation mantra that roughly translates to "honor the divinity that resides within." To me this meant following my own inner voice and heart first and foremost and taking steps in my life to realize the potential and possibilities of my existence. To get out of or adjust relationships both personally and professionally that were not healthy for myself and others and to search for new ones that were; to continue my religious and spiritual studies and work toward becoming more humble and honest and courageous in my words and my choices. And so my relationship ended. I left a job I was relatively successful, but grossly unhappy at. I changed my diet to reflect my personal ethics. I made it a point to fight for more work-life balance and to spend more time with me myself and I and less time with the rest of the world for awhile. And in doing these things, I hurt people. And it was hard... and it still is. But here's the catch; I can see a light today that I couldn't a year ago. My dreams for my life have slowly begun to reappear. I feel on (most) days like I am living again rather than just surviving. I am living my life on my own terms and I am being the best person and the most compassionate person I know how to be. And I know that the person I am today, and the person I was a year ago or three year ago or six years ago, isn't good enough for some people... but I am trying to be worthy of more than God's love; of the love of the people in the world around me, the people that I do love and care about. When I feel downtrodden and like I have disappointed too many people and lost too many people who were and still are, even in their absence from my life, dearly important to me, I think about my mom. I think about her leaving her marriage of 26 years to chart new territory for her life. I think about the selfishness of this decision and the hurt that other people experienced in it's wake... and I know without a shadow of a doubt that it was the right decision.In hindsight, years later it was apparent to everyone upon the sight of her glorious blooming after having made this choice to search for new ways of being in the world, how silently stifled she had been. I don't say this to justify my own actions but merely to remind myself of the happiness that having such courage to change herself and her world brought her; to remind me that when she died she left this world deeply admired and respected for being so truly authentic and true to herself... even from people she had hurt in the past; to remind myself that staying true to oneself's heart first, or honoring the divinity that resides within, almost always pays off in the end. Sometimes I think about what she would say to me today as I make minor and major choices in my life and I know, I know that despite the hurt some of my choices have caused in others, that I was at a point where I had no other choice than to chose to live differently. And so I did and even if there's not a soul on this earth proud of me, or even really pleased with me, somewhere my mom is quietly smiling.

I have been reading a lot of Anne Lamott's writing lately about her life and about finding Jesus and about grace happening in our life. And while I don't personally follow Jesus as my lord and savior, I respect many of his teachings and his words as prophetic as I do many other religious and spiritual folks of the past and present. I appreciate very much Lamott's vulnerability and her courage to say how very un-perfect and sinful she can be and also her recognition of those moments we don't have words for when the music of the world seems to come together in one unanimous, lovely note and sing something, if even for a moment, more beautiful and true than we could have ever expected for hoped to hear; those moments when grace happens. As in Lamott's life, I have found it equally true in my own that many unexpected moments of grace are experienced during or after some of our lives most heartbreaking times. The death of my mother has been, thus far, my life's biggest heartbreak, the failure of a ten-year relationship I thought would last forever, a close second. And yet when I look at these two things, at what I have learned from each experience, at the courage and strength I have gained as a result of them, at the stretching my soul has been able to do and the spiritual growth that has happened as a result, I see grace. It's hard to appreciate and recognize life's greatest and simplest pleasures unless you have been witness to some of life's greatest tragedies and survived them. In reflection I also look at my former partner and at, despite what I'm sure have been moments of heartbreak and sorrow and of deep sadness over our absence from each other's lives, I feel greatful. I feel happy and I feel encouraged by my choices in seeing the happier and healthier ways that she is living her life... even if it's without me in it. And as much as I miss her sometimes, I feel so grateful to God that she is getting to blossom and bloom in such a lovely way and I feel so proud of the courage and strength that she has shown and can only hope that she feels as strong inside as she appears to those of us who know and love her from up close or in my case, from afar.

This year I have felt sad a lot. I have felt depressed. I have felt melancholy and hopeless and fearful and exceptionally lonely. I have felt guilty and I have felt ashamed. And I have felt humbled. But I have also felt strong. I have felt deeper wells of compassion than ever before in my life. And yet, at the end of the day, after all has been said and done, in many moments I have just felt brave because I have survived. I have been through the valley and have waded through the world's and my own ugly muck and have at times thrown myself in the mud and wanted to quit... yet I have always, somehow, gotten back up on my feet again and slowly, slowly continued to trudge along. I am not out of the woods just yet and many days are still hard and are still sad and are still lonely... but I can see a future, a happier, hopeful life out there for me. I can see possibility again. I can see the absence of some people I was sure would always be cheering me one, but I also can see a few folks out waiting for me to come back to the world, mainly ones I never would have expected like my father and stepmother. And I have survived.

May we see in all of our lives, amid beauty and brokenness, surprising moments of sparkling, heart-stopping, joy-inducing, soul-filling, divine Grace. And perhaps more importantly, may we see inside of ourselves and each other, amid our ugliest moments and in those of beautiful humility, that just by being here, we are all survivors. I think after this past year, in the loving spirit of life and all that is good and holy and redemptive, all I'd really like to say is, we made it. May it continue to be so.

Namaste.

Generations Past

Today marked the day when I finished cleaning out the storage unit my brother and I had of what's left of my mom and grandparents belongings. It was hard to pick and choose what to keep and what to get rid of as I don't have a lot of room in my house for any more stuff (see: none). So I decided to throw away a lot of my own stuff, mostly art projects and school assignments from when I was a kid that my mom had saved. It felt wrong throwing that stuff into the dumpster at my condo building but it means I get to keep things like albums of pictures like the ones below. Until today, I'd never seen any of these pictures before. I'd never seen pictures of my grandparents when they were young, of my mom and her sister when they were kids and all four of them were smiling and happy. My mom's sister Gail died in a car accident at 21, long before I was born, and I never heard anyone ever speak of her or saw pictures of her. I think her death caused a deep crack in the foundation of the Sepulveda family and things were never ever the same. It was amazing to see these photos today... to look at images of the people who came before me. And it was heartbreaking knowing that they are all four gone now and there's nobody to narrate what was happening in the photos and that my brother and I are the two last lone members of this Spanish/Sweedish clan. This photos makes me miss my grandparents and crave to have known my aunt Gail and the photos of my mom, well... they're like looking at myself and into the soul of someone I knew and who knew me better than perhaps anyone ever will. But I'm happy that for a time, they all appeared to be happy. Good Lord they were all so beautiful...

My mom's parents, Edwin and Florine Sepulveda...

Not a very good picture of this picture, but my stunning grandmother. Until today, I'd never seen a picture of her when she was young...

My mom and her sister Gail...

Mom

......

Home

Remember after the divorce

when we used to recline in the summer evening's sun

your tanned skin inhaling every last morsel of the days light

after hours spent working the earth

creating a masterful green paradise

dirt having buried itself in the cracks on your palms and under your fingernails

you finally could enjoy your creation with me over dinner

and so we sat in our purple Adirondack chairs 

and became experts at lounging in wordless peace

slurping our homemade pesto to a symphony of gurgling fountains

and creating together

our new home.

~~~~~

It's a multitude of years later now

and I haven't eaten in the evening sun for ages...

and the dirt is gone from underneath your fingernails

and the cracks in your hands...

and you aren't here any more at all really 

and I miss desperately

our bountiful feasts of silent, unconditional love.

And today...
well today I need you.

Won't you, if only for the flutter of a butterfly's wings,
come back to me now?

Broken Blessings

Several times in the past few weeks a petite blonde woman in her early to mid fifties walked by my deli perusing the days offerings and seemed so farmiliar to me. I watched her come and go with her little cart out of the corner of my eye, and thought about her when I drove home from work. Yesterday she came in again and approached the deli case. I decided I would chat her up a bit, see if she recognized me or if her voice would trigger my memory. I figured maybe she was the mother of an old friend, or a friend of my own mother. I asked her how her day was going and what her plans were for the weekend and mid sentence, as the words came from my mouth, all of a sudden it hit me, I placed her. And as far as I know, our paths had never crossed. She does, I don't think, know me or my family or any of my friends. Newspaper articles and evening news clips came suddenly rushing into my memory; images of a family ripped apart at the seams by the tragic kidnapping and disappearance of their daughter, a young, pretty, smart young college student. The young woman of whom I speak is Brooke Wilberger, the woman who I scooped potato salad for and chatted with, her mother. When I was in college, Brooke was kidnapped from the parking lot of the apartment building across the street from my own and it was later discovered that she had in fact been murdered. As I looked into her mother's eyes, I wondered how she has carried on knowing the tragedy with which her child's life ended and missing her presence in the world more than any words could ever express I'm sure and a deep well of reverence and respect and compassion flooded my insides. I have a special kind of compassion for people who have lost a loved one suddenly and without warning because I know first hand the shock to one's system and the years it can take to realize and come to terms with what exactly has happened.

This past winter I took at theology class that met one night a week. One session we were working in small groups and one of the women in my group revealed that her own father had taken his life. I later found out that not to many years ago, she lost her son as well, the causes of which I'm unaware. Imagine if you don't already, the tragedy of knowing that someone you love was so miserable in this life that they took their own and that no matter how much you loved them, you couldn't keep this from happening. And to loose a child as well on top of your already grief.

I got an email at work today that at young woman who worked at another one of our stores died on Wednesday. And then came the news, unofficially, that she had been murdered. There are over one hundred coworkers currently grieving the loss of their friend not to mention her family and friends outside of work. How horrible it is to have such a young life cut so tragically and violentely short.

I suppose the truth of the matter, one of the very big truths of our lives, of our existence on this planet, is that bad things do indeed happen to good people. People die. They die naturally and they die suddently and sometimes they die violentely. They get sick and they die old and they die young and they die everywhere in between. And yet, somehow, those left behind, those who loved those who died, most often carry on. We grieve for days and weeks and months and yes, for years, for the eternity of our days often. We learn to live in the world with a permanently broken heart, with a missing piece of ourselves. And often in the process, as in my own experience of dealing with a tragic loss and grief, we grow and we learn things that we would have never learned about ourselves and those around us that we wouldn't have without having experienced such grief. Everyday people go out in the world after having experienced tragedy, suffering quietly on the inside. They step out into the world with newfound courage, whether they realize it or not, and in doing so, their souls often expand exponentially. They often grow in their ability to have compassion towards others, and in their strength in themselves to perserve despite their shattered or crumbled hearts. Sometime people never get over the loss of someone dear to them, they never learn to be happy again, to function in the world in a healthy, productive way. But more often than not, they do.

As for Brooke Wilberger's mom, I will never know what's in her heart or the pain and loss she lives with on a daily basis. But I do know that many years after the murder of her precious daughter, she is still here and that is an accomplishment in and of itself. And she is out in the world and she smiled, I saw it. And even if it was for show, I smiled at her and it wasn't. I hope she felt that.

As for my friend from class who has lived through the suicide of her father and death of her son, she now is a hospice chaplain and helps others who are dealing with illness and death and loss cope. Imagine, the new light from her soul that now shines through the cracks in her broken heart to help comfort others; what a gift. I will never forget the conversation I had with her when she told me despite all the tragedies that have happened in her life, she knows there is still goodness amid brokenness; that she still sees the daffodils come up out of the ground every spring and is reminded that life is always there continuing to go on if you only stop and pay attention to it and make the decision to participate. She said this is just one little reminder to her of the interconnectedness of all life. And I couldn't agree more.

As for the young woman who was murdered a few days ago, only time will tell what lessons the ripples of her life and of her death will spread out into the world. I can say that already hundreds of people have stepped forward, showing up to her store to work from all over the Portland area to let those who loved her and are grieving her missing presence in the world take some moments for themselves to reflect upon this loss. I can say that I have seen a community of thousands of people come together in a matter of minutes in the way that people so often do when tragedies strike. And I wonder, why so often, does it take tragic loss, for us to be fully compassionate and sacrifice of ourselves for others?

In truth, many of us are not much different from the people I've mentioned above. Many of us have experienced the tragic death of loved ones, of lives seemingly cut short. If not that, most all of us have experienced some death in some way even if it be of that of a grandparent who died of old age in their sleep or have witness a friend go through the loss of one of their loved ones. If not death, than illness, job loss, and a myriad of other things that can in the moment make life hard, that can make life a series of growing pains; a continual breaking of the heart that often in hindsight, cause the soul to grow into previously unimaginable places. And as hard as life can be sometimes, these dark moments are often the very things that make us realize how valuable our lives our; what a gift and a blessing they are. And hopefully, make us grow in our compassion towards other people and learn to value their lives more as well. I can say for myself, that while I would give anything to have my mom alive, the lessons I have learned and the compassion I have grown and the strength I have gained as a result of her death are almost indescribable in words. Her sudden and violent exit from the world, while having taken years to even process, is for me, as strange as it may sound to you, in many many ways a blessing in my life. While her death shattered my heart completely and made me question very much the evidence of goodness in the world, over time there as been and continues to be a slow, gradual healing of the soul. As a wise woman once said, it's only when our hearts are broken, that the light of our souls is able to finally shine through. And for me, who's broken hearted grief has helped her realize her calling in the world, this statement rings truer the many. And I am thankful my heart has cracks and chips in it; I've grown to like and appreciate very much my battle scars.

I wonder, could all learn to have deeper wells of compassion for our fellow humans at all times, not just in the moments when we are suddenly struck with the awareness of someone else's grief, and if so, how might the world be different? If when interacting with other people, we always kept in the back of our minds that no matter the person's demeanor towards us, that we never in fact know what they have been or may be going through, how might the way we treat our fellow humans change? I am certainly no expert at this and get frustrated and easily upset when I feel like people are unduly rude or harsh or nasty towards me and I often take things too personally when they actually have very little or nothing to do with me. The truth is life is exceptionally hard and challenging sometimes, and most of us are just doing what we have to do to get by in this world and looking for glimmers of hope, for moments of peace, for snippets of joy, and for the love that can be found in the communion of souls. Because the truth is also that these moments exist; they are everywhere really. Even amid unfairness and grief and brokenness, beauty exists. Even amid our sadness and our grief and our stress, the daffodils continue to push through the earth into the light, showing us that we can break through the surface of our grief and let our souls shine out through the cracks of our broken hearts. Often going through tragic loss or hardship gives us the gift of being able to learn to search for moments of life's beauty with more intensity and find a deeper well of compassion within ourselves for those traveling on this journey with us. May we all try to go out into the world aware that what meets the eye is often only a miniscule piece of the people's story, to see the sometimes startling beauty in other's broken hearts and growing souls, and to approach each other as our paths cross, with a gentle, compassionate, and graceful spirit.

Shine

The passage below is excerpted from the book Daily OM by Madisyn Taylor which has quickly become one of my favorites. My copy has a broken back, dog-eared pages, highlighting, and underlining and I like that it looks so used. There's hundreds of nuggets of wisdom and soul-fulfilling thoughts to be found here. The passage below is one I return to often when I'm feeling frustrated with my job, in dealing with the public and with managing people; it always brings me back to reason I have chosen to do what I do for a living and helps me 'not sweat the small stuff' as it were. Should you be looking for a quick read with a deep, long-lasting impression, check out Daily OM.

Spreading Your Light

How you affect others daily

   As the pace and fullness of modern life serve to isolate us from on another, the contact we do share becomes vastly more significant. We unconsciously absorb each other's energy, adopting the temperament to those with whom we share close quarters, and we find ourselves changed after the briefest encounters. Everything we do or say has the potential to affect not only the individuals we live, work, and play with, but also those we have just met. Although we may never know the impact we have had or the scope of our influence, accepting and understanding that our attitudes and choices will touch others can help us remember to conduct ourselves with grace at all times. When we seek always to be friendly, helpful, and responsive, we effortlessly create an atmosphere around ourselves that is both uplifting and inspiring. 

   Most people rarely give thought to the effect they have had or will have on others. When we take a few moments to contemplate how our individual modes of being affect the people we spend time
with each day, we come on step closer to seeing ourselves through the eyes of others. By asking ourselves whether those we encounter walk away feeling appreciated, respected, and liked, we can heighten our awareness of the effect we ultimately have. 

   Something as simple as a smile given freely can temporarily brighten a person's entire world. Our value-driven conduct may inspire others to consider whether their own lives are reflective of their values. A word of advice can help people see everything in an entirely new fashion, and small gestures of kindness can even prove to those embittered by the world that goodness still exists. By simply being ourselves, we influence others in both subtle and life-altering ways.

   To ensure that the effect we have is positive, we must strive to stay true to ourselves while realizing that it is the demeanor we project and not the quality of our wondrous inner landscapes that people see. Thus, as we interact with others how we behave can be as important as who we are. If we project our passion for life, our warmth, and our tolerance in our facial features, voice and choice of words, all who enter our circle of influence will leave our presence feeling at peace with themselves around us. 

   You never know whose life you are affecting, in a big way or small. Try to remember this as you go out into the world each day.

May you have a most blessed, giving day. Namaste.

In Short...

...one of the most rewarding work days today I've had in about three years. Wow, I feel like I'm back! And, as obnoxious as I know it sounds, think I'm about to do some amazing things. It's nice to feel confident about something again. I feel so lucky to have gotten this new job and to have found a company who's ethics I really jive with and be in a place where I feel like I'm given the tools and the support I need to be truly successful. So exciting!

Shumbi in his bed

In other news, yesterday my bed looked mighty rumpled when I got home and I was sure I had made it in the morning. So today I spent extra time when I made it pulling the covers very taught and what do you know... when I got home the sheets and blankets were untucked and all laid in a crumpled mound in the middle of the bed! And there was lots of little red and black hairs found on my new white duvet. What a little naughty nugget that fat Shumba is! Needless to say, tomorrow morning my bedroom door will be shut before I leave for work; no more doggy happy nappy hour in mamma's bed!

Cheers to new beginnings, fresh starts, grand adventures and the like!

An amazing artist...

Louise Bourgeois

1911-2010

Rest in peace, you genius of a woman you.

Tomorrow...

Is my last day working for Starbucks. I'm quite sad about leaving my team as there's still work to do and will miss a lot of things about my job, but really super excited for the new adventure that awaits me at New Seasons and am hopeful that it will bring more challenges, more support, and more time outside of work to pursue my life's bigger passions. 


Right now it's two fifteen a.m. and I'm laying awake in the dark listening to the rain because I can't sleep (but am feeling grossly uninspired to write anything of real significance or length here). I think my inability to sleep is due to the fact that I have SO much to get done between now and Friday like deleting over 1900 emails from my work inbox (seriously... I know this is bad), obtaining a copy of my birth certificate for my new job which starts Friday, finishing writing and mailing off what seems like ten thousand thank you cards to everyone I ever worked with at Starbucks... oh, and I have happy hour tomorrow with my peers and a party Friday night with my partners to toast my departure. My friend told everyone that there will be a white sequined unitard and an interpretive dance routine on my part at one of these festivities; a lady's really got her work cut out for her! Yep, it's a rough life I'm leading this week. I figure the next six days I better have a good time before the real work begins!


I saw a documentary about my former minister (www.rawfaith.com, check it out!) last Friday night and my favorite line from the movie was given to her by her spiritual advisor, a former Catholic priest and it went something like this; "If you want to listen to what God most desires for you, listen to your own deepest longings." What a lovely line, a lovely thought indeed. I have spent the better part of the last year (those few hours I wasn't at work !), trying to do exactly this, to honor the voice and the divinity that resides within... so much so that I had it tattooed on my body as a reminder. In any event, as sad as I am in many ways to be leaving Starbucks, as much as it makes me feel like a little bit of a quitter, like I'm leaving something that hasn't been fully accomplished yet, there has been something else calling to me for awhile now. I believe my new job will allow me more time and energy to follow this calling, this longing, and continue my search for the place the divine Providence has named for me with a newfound depth and dedication. For myself and for you too as you embark on new adventures and face new challenges, may it be so.


Namaste.

Sunday Secrets

I have developed a bit of an obsession with Post Secret. Have you heard of it? A friend of mine, Sarah, loves it and I found out about it from her girlfriend telling me about her love of it a few years back. In any event, what I think started out as an art project by one man, Frank somebody-rather, has turned into this world-wide phenomenon whereby people write their secrets on postcards and mail them to Frank. Each Sunday Frank chooses a few, because he gets thousands each week,  and displays them on Postsecret.com. He also has several books which are filled with the postcards, I have a few.

I love Post Secret for three reasons:

1.Each postcard is like a piece of art and is completely unique. Besides whatever words may be held there, some of the cards are absolutely beautiful.

2. Perhaps the reason why Post Secret has become the phenomenon that it has, reading other people secrets makes me realize I'm not alone. Some of them are silly and I think, why the hell did someone even go to the trouble, and some of them are graphic and shocking and horribly sad, and some of them, well some of them feel like they could have been written by me. Frank tours around college campuses and talks about his journey with Post Secret and audience members are invited to get up and speak their secrets into microphones for the entire audience to see. And from what I hear, it's quite the cathartic experience for many to say aloud the thing that they have been hiding about their lives or about themselves for years in some deep dark crevice of their soul.

3. The third reason that I love Post Secret is because of this; because it inspires courage and bravery within people to be strong in who they are and tell the world the things which may plague them or make them feel alone. It functions as a guise that says even though I may have done this or that, even though these things may have happened to me, I am still here and valuable and worthy of life and of the world. In sharing their secrets or hearing others do so, people are often brought into communion with the world of broken and wounded souls around them. In the act of speaking their truth, salvation is found.

Each week Frank includes emails from people with the postcards and there are always several that say something about how they were inspired or felt not alone when reading someone else's postcard or hearing someone else speak their secret at a live event. And this last reason is why I think Frank and Post Secret are doing God's work really. For those who are not religious, who don't go to church on Sundays or who have very little hope and faith in their life, or for those who do but who are carrying around horrible feelings of guilt or shame or sadness within themselves, Post Secret is a place to go each Sunday that has the ability to help one feel not as alone in the world as they may have all of the days before that Sunday. Should you find yourself with some time to spare this Sunday, check out Post Secret and discover a community of people who are stepping outside of the things that have happened to them or that they have done into a new, more honest, open and courage space. It just may inspire you to in your own way, do the same.


For my Sunday offering, I give you a few choice secrets of my own...

I know my dad loves me, but am afraid he will never get over the disappointment of having a gay daughter and an autistic son. I feel a horrible sense of guilt sometimes that we both unwillingly fucked it up for him.

Nobody in my family knows about my blog... or is allowed to be my friend on Facebook. Seems trivial I know, but for some reason I insist on keeping them at a distance... and not knowing at all who I really am or what I want to do with my life. I think this is some twisted form of self protection so that when I lose them, or they me, it won't hurt so bad this time.

I sucked my thumb WELL into childhood. Ouch.

I worry endlessly that I will never ever be able to get over this crippling fear I have of just jumping into my life's dreams and making them and this happen. That I will die having done nothing of significance, having not managed to make the world any better of a place while I'm here. This is perhaps my biggest fear.

I think if my mom was still alive my life would be completely different. I think I would be a lot more adept at going after what I want in life and would perhaps be much happier in my career. I also think I would have an entirely different career than the one that I currently fantasize about... because her death is I think, what unwillingly pushed me full force onto the path I now walk on in life, the direction I am heading.

I miss laying in the grass, sitting outside in a garden at sunset, and sleeping in a hammock desperately.

I worry sometimes I don't have a very good sense of myself. Because the me I feel like I am and the me people see and react to sometimes feel worlds apart.

Some of the things that secretly bring me momentary joy and utter bliss: the swing ride at the carnival where you feel like you're floating for a few minutes (my superhero power would be to fly, hands down); when small anonymous children chat me up; being on roller skates (but then, that's not really a secret at this point now is it?!); when I know Shumbi is happy as a clam and has had a good day; when Erica or Perry (my Starbucks crushes) smile at me, because they both just have the best damn smiles; when I know some little thing I have said made a difference in somebody's day (is that really obnoxious to say? Probably); and last but not least, writing. Little else in the world brings me more joy than writing because it is here on the blank page, on the glowing computer screen, where my fingers are able to finally say all the things my mouth is too afraid to.

May you find some time on this Sunday to share a hidden piece of yourself with the world or to witness somebody else as they do so and give thanks. Namaste.

Maybe

It's Saturday night. 7:27pm. I'm sitting in my bed, in my pajamas. My work day started at eight this morning and I finally dragged my poor old tired legs to my car around 645 this evening. Needless to say, it was a long day. And a hard one. Our busiest of the year in fact. We did over four thousand dollars in sales, that's a lot of lattes, and we sold over 275 Frappuccinos. That's the name of our blended beverages for those of you who don't 'speak Starbucks. Long story short, today was chaos from the word go and my body is literally aching; most especially my feet and my back.

I came home to an empty house and it's too quite in here. Shumba was seemingly happy to see me but really he just wanted his dinner. After I fed him he went and laid in the other room with his favorite teddy bear toy and ignored me when I called his name. My last interaction with the roommate yesterday morning ended in quite an ugly manner and she's at work tonight but I'm sure will either still be mad at me or won't want to speak to me at all next time our paths cross. All day long I took care of other people. I served hundreds of customers. I picked their garbage up off the floor that they couldn't seem to throw in the trash can. I wiped up their messes. I made their drinks, I gave stickers to their children, I smiled and was friendly even when they were rude to me because it's important to me that my interactions with others leave them feeling happy even if they treat me like dirt. I gave my amazing, hard working partners breaks before myself and I stopped on the way in an bought doughnuts and fruit and juice for breakfast for everyone. Not a single person said thank you. Last weekend I spent 11 hours on my day off preparing and serving coffee to rich Oregonians at an art auction benefitting Cascade Aids Project and this week I will be trying to help plan Starbucks participation in the Oregon Humane Society Doggie Dash next weekend. In what little spare time I've had this week I surfed the web endlessly, and to no avail, to try to find my brother a cheap place to live in North Portland by the end of the month. I also need to find a storage unit and go over to his house to help him sort through and pack up the spare bedroom full of what remains of my mom and grandparents belongings before we actually get him moved in the next few weeks. I haven't been grocery shopping in over two weeks and today I ate the following: two doughnuts, a bag of dried apples, a bag of popcorn, a turkey bacon breakfast sandwich minus the turkey bacon, some strawberries, and for dinner I had two stale chocolate chip cookies and about a gallon of water. The dirty laundry is piling up in the corner of my bedroom and my dog is getting fat because he doesn't get walked enough and today... well, today I feel like I am starting to fray from the inside out. I'm starting to feel hopeless... and even on a bad day, I still usually can find hope that tomorrow will be better.

   Lately in my life I feel like all I do is give of myself to other people and other causes and I never get to spend much time doing anything for myself. Don't get me wrong, I like doing things for other people. It makes me feel useful, worthwhile and happy to know that I was able to make someone's day happier or brighter or easier. But when you do this day in and day out and with very little thanks, it can sometimes, as today, grow tiring and lead to the ignoring of one's own needs. Truth be told, I did buy myself a new outfit earlier this week and some new shoes too. That was pretty exciting... until I paid all of my bills the other night and realized that shopping trip to try to cheer myself up maybe wasn't the best idea I ever had. I know my life is blessed beyond belief; that I'm more fortunate and wealthy and privileged than most of the world in fact, but lately life still just feels too damn hard and awful damn lonely. It sucks coming home from work on horrible days like today to a dirty kitchen, an empty refrigerator, an achy body, and sad soul, and not having anyone who gives a damn. Friends are barbecuing  on this warm night with their family or going out to do something fun with their partners or friends because they have some semblance of a weekend and social life and balance between their work and personal lives and tomorrow most of them will celebrate or recognize mothers day in some way. And I will go to church alone, and I will listen to a sermon about how important and wonderful moms are, and I will be sad as sad can be and then and I will come home to a quiet, empty house and be sad some more. I will do my laundry and clean the bathroom, because I always clean the bathroom on Sundays and maybe just maybe I will go to the grocery store and by eight I will be in bed reading because I have to get up for work at three on Mondays. And then the whole cycle starts all over again.

  But Monday is a new day. It is not a tired today and not a sad tomorrow. Maybe it will rain and I will be happy that its cool out again. Maybe, just maybe one of the hundreds of people I serve every day and people I manage will thank me for how hard I work and how much of my life I give to my stupid job. Maybe I will drive across the St. Johns bridge, three mountains in view, and exhale a little bit into the beauty of the world. Maybe I will cook myself a healthy, balanced, filling meal and feel fortunate to be so lucky. Maybe my roomate will decide I'm not such an asshole after all and by some miraculous twist of fate, we will find my brother a place that he can afford and get him packed up and moved in the next three weeks. Maybe I will find time to get my laundry done and feel happy and good about myself as I step out into the world smelling of fabric softener. Maybe I will read something fantastic and inspiring and be reconnected with the dreams I have for my life that on many days I'm too busy and tired to remember about. Maybe a friend I miss dearly will want to get together. Maybe and actually probably, many of these things will happen in the next week and my soul will be a little bit restored and I will see the light again and I will remember what an unspeakable blessing this one life is and remember how fortunate and lucky a girl I am and I will be able again to recognize everything positive and grace-filled and lovely that makes my life and the world and the people around me what they are. And I will be happy again.