A Story in Progress

I don't know what you're thinking

Out there alone

Or with everyone you claim

Is important to your breath

But what is this now?

Are you here

With me

Speaking whispers of yesterday

That day, that look, that smile,

That time when you

And I

Almost

Release and Goodbye

As I approach my 42nd birthday this fall, I've been doing a lot of mental and emotional processing. You could say I've had a lot to process the last four months, besides the normal reflections of middle-age. This is the time where people normally decide to either start living or continue the process of figuratively dying. Middle-age is also a time where people usually decide who they're going to be for the second half of their lives, evaluating what's worked, what hasn't, and what they need to do to embrace the changes they've decided to become. Some of us more reflective types have been doing that for decades, but why not take the time to do it when it you've accumulated enough wisdom to make it seem more real?

That's what I'm going to attempt to do here. Those of you who have been reading this blog for years or who have gotten to know me well enough in person realize this "reflection thing" is a core part of who I am. You also know how easy it is for me to oscillate between choices because I see, value, and am so many different things. Well, approaching 42nd birthday aside, for the past four months I've been processing a lot of mixed emotions and difficult choices. There's been resolve, resolution, relief, frustration, longing, sadness, some happiness, some regret, confusion, a desire to hold on to people, a desire to let go of people, a desire to let go of falsehoods, identities, and tasks, a desire to be honest, a desire to keep being the better person, self-examination of my contributions to the dynamics, compassion, empathy, forgiveness, and hurt. A lot of hurt.

During the past four months, I left an employer I didn't really want to, but I let go of a job and an environment that had become toxic for me. I'd felt for years that it was time for me to move on, but someone always ended up leaving before I decided to put it in writing, or a big project and a lot of work was looming, or I was needed to do something else or support someone else.....everyone else except me. It's a long-winded way of saying I made decisions based on my perception of what others needed, not what I needed.

I also tolerated years of mistreatment - from bosses, peers, subordinates. When my fuse would finally start to spark, it was too much too late. And people didn't understand why nice, overly compliant, overly supportive, and overly agreeable me would be any different. Actions I took seemed unacceptable for me, but they certainly were acceptable for everyone else. I could be yelled at, demeaned repeatedly (often in front of others), misunderstood, interrupted, dismissed, and talked to condescendingly without consequence. But if I even started to resemble those things, it was game over. I didn't feel human anymore. I couldn't agree, I couldn't disagree, I couldn't take the time to think. There wasn't any support for my mistakes. In fact, it felt as though there wasn't any support at all. I was a punching bag and a dumping ground, and as long as I continued to fulfill those roles everything was okay.

Others who worked with me (some of them not even in the same department) pointed out my unhappiness and mistreatment long before I was willing to admit it to myself. I'm grateful for that and for the opportunity to take other jobs in the organization, even though I ended up not following through because of the nature of the job itself. I wanted to stay and I wanted to work with the people I would have worked with, but I didn't want to end up with a potential misalignment with my true interests and the responsibilities of the position. I'm also grateful for those who forgave my less than ideal (re)actions, and for the talks that validated my perceptions of what was happening. Thank you for offering to go to bat for me, even though I wanted to have the conversation myself with the people who were at the core of my feelings of betrayal and hurt. I never did have that conversation. I always felt as though I were walking on eggshells and I let my desire to please/avoid confrontation override the need to be honest and to honor myself.

I wanted to be honest, but the trust was long gone. And I didn't know if it would come back. Three years ago it was blown apart and I was hurt. Not the first time, but I was hurt to the point where I couldn't speak because what I felt as a result was so overwhelming. I couldn't process or identify the swirl of negativity that had happened. I knew what had happened was bullying - mobbing to be more exact. But I chose to say nothing because I wasn't sure if it was part of some sort of misguided, bizarre ritual that took place with everyone, if I had become a target because true to my conscientiousness I was a "model employee," or if this was retaliation for thinking for myself and choosing not to go along with what someone else wanted me to do at the time. Plus, when I'm shocked, uncomfortable, or a past trauma is triggered, my mind and entire body freezes. I lose my words, can't make decisions, and I can't act. I suppose a professional might call this an effect of PTSD or post traumatic stress disorder, but since it's been with me since I can remember I consider it "normal." I had made a mistake, maybe several, yes. But the instructions I was given were to try and someone else would fill in the blanks, if needed. I didn't realize I was being set up to fail and then publicly humiliated for it, among other things that I did not have knowledge of and/or were beyond my direct control. At that moment, I stopped trusting. I stopped being completely honest. And I stopped wanting to continue trying.

I knew from life experiences that people hurt others because they themselves have been hurt or they're carrying angst they don't know how to process in a healthy manner. I also knew at that point I started to disengage and thought of leaving. I started to line up possibilities. I was ready to leave, but I didn't because someone else beat me to it. And once again I chose to put the needs of others before my own. Looking back, I should have left anyway; regardless of what my absence would have meant, because I was only prolonging the inevitable. I carried the hurt and the shock of that experience for three years. I wondered why someone would choose to publicly humiliate and berate someone for making mistakes without clear direction. If you set someone up to fail, it isn't fair to punish them for not meeting your expectations. Why not use it as an opportunity to coach or mentor in private? Why not ask why certain directions and choices were made, and then explain politely and constructively why other directions and choices were more optimal?

But as humans, we often model what we've been shown or what has been done to us without realizing we're doing the same thing to others we told ourselves we wouldn't. After that "incident," I was no longer able to trust some of the people I needed to trust; people I was supposed to be able to trust. So for three years I wasn't fully authentic. And of course making that type of decision cost me a piece of who I was. And the job and its environment started to mirror the same experience I had separated myself from in 2011. It was more or less the same lesson given from a different angle. When will you listen? You matter. Your needs matter. What do you really want? It matters. Not what others think or what they want you to do. It's about you.

It seems selfish, but the truth is authenticity is the foundation of being able to give. And if you sacrifice your passions, your needs, your wants, who you are, you simply can't be anything to anyone else. And those who are around you or asking and needing things of you because of a mask, shouldn't be there. It's not healthy and it's better to let go.

Suffice it to say that letting go of an employer I didn't want to (but had to) is only one of the changes I've been processing. As my forty-first year of life comes to a close and my forty-second one begins, I'm hoping I can take better care of myself. I'm hoping I no longer tolerate toxicity and actually stand up when it happens, not when it becomes engulfing. I'm also hoping I learn to say "you hurt me. can we fix this if you're able to give me what I need." If not, I release and forgive you, but goodbye.

Transformation

There comes a point in any creative endeavor, writing project, or stretch of life's journey when you run out of things to say. It's also sometimes labeled as "time to get on a different path" or "the end of the beginning." I believe that I've reached that point with this blog as it has somehow become more than what I originally intended it to be.

The truth is that I have reached a point where I no longer feel an urge to explore the trait of high sensitivity, discuss its many implications, or describe how we may interpret life and its many lessons. I know who I am and I am comfortable being me, even if that "me" is different from the majority, will continue to be misunderstood/misinterpreted, and will probably never quite "fit in."

I no longer wish to discuss my life or my experiences. I know there's not much to them (by society's standards), but my life is mine and I am more than happy with it. I have a full-time job and employer that I love, a freelance career that I have scaled down to a manageable pace, and one final degree full of writing projects and responsibilities to see through. Where I'm going next or where all of this is going to take me I'd rather not know, and I'd rather not plan or speculate. There will be more changes, more transformations I'm sure, but right now I don't know what the answers are going to be.

I know it sounds silly, but I have no specific goals; no specific objectives for the future, the present, or the past. For the rest of my journey in this body, I'd rather Just Be, Breathe, and Enjoy.

Rest assured I have no plans to take the blog down, as I know many come to current and old posts for "something." What that "something" is is individual and private. It's that space that I'm going to return to. Thank you for reading, for commenting, for sharing a piece of your worlds. Perhaps someday my words and my spirit will re-emerge in a different way. Until then, see you in dreams and the unseen.

999

I often debate whether I should keep this blog going and update all of you about my life, and my reflections. But I figure that some of you are invested enough to keep reading, or keep stalking, or whatever it is that you do. I'm not judging you stalkers by the way. I understand obsessive admiration and the desire to want to get to know someone you somehow find "taboo" (even though I myself am not a stalker). I'm just not sure I'm comfortable being the target of this. But that's not why I'm writing. I'm writing to capture a screenshot so years later I can re-read these words and smile, laugh, or realize that things made more sense than what they seemed to. This week I'm at a residency for my MFA program. It hasn't been a year since I've been to L.A., but it's been a year since I've been in the middle of this gathering. It seems that all those weird "out of place" feelings have finally subsided. I still don't really know what I'm doing here, but at least I don't feel like I need to run. Maybe it's because I no longer care if I only understand the business side of writing (agents, being enterprising, the state of the publishing industry, etc.) and can't see why it's worth extracting the technical ins and outs of writing what is supposed to be from your heart. Or maybe it's because I no longer feel guilty for not wanting to participate in the "la de da" social events or for just chatting one on one with the few friends I've managed to make here. Maybe it's because I've never cared about being published in a review or The New Yorker or inviting all my peers to a wine & cheese reading of my debut novel. No, there's nothing "wrong" with these ambitions. I just write for different purposes. I no longer care that I will probably learn very little from workshops or these seminars that contain information I can find for myself. I no longer care that even some of the mentors that I may get will not be able to guide me towards anything useful (at least in terms of my work). I'm not even upset with myself that I've decided to remain in my CO home, continue working my day job, and be near my family, at least until I'm done with this program. I'm finding that it's better not to have any expectations. It is so much more liberating to just let things be. Gifts come with joys and burdens, as my mentor told me the other morning. She is right. Any dream comes bundled in the same package. There is happiness and there is work. Neither one exists without the other, and it's always a constant balance. So, last time I was "told" not to give up. And I didn't. I'm here. I'm back. And the work that I had to do paid off somehow. This time it's not 222, but 999. So, it seems I have more work to get to. Not the kind that releases me from a piece of myself, but the kind that is supposed to be there for everyone else. Now it's time to do the work that I came here to do. What that is yet, exactly, I don't know. But I'm sure, someday, that the joy will make it worthwhile.

The Old Lady with the Knitted Hat

I entered the room full of bluish-purple chairs, lined up in rows like pancake stacks. In front of me was a podium, a makeshift stage hung with studio lights and a white-screen backdrop. I was dizzy and unsure of myself. Lost and spinning in an ungrounded dismemberment of my former ego. I sat in a chair, by myself and looked around for something familiar, something I could know, something I could grasp. You sat behind me, unknown until your small voice gave me that something. I turned around to join you, to acknowledge your presence. There you were in bright blue, my favorite color. A knitted sweater, a knitted hat to hide the hair that you'd lost. The white hair that was growing back. Your skin was worn and fresh. Your face innocent, open, wise and bright. We said a few things. About Eat, Pray, Love. About Emma Donoghue's The Room, where we were from, how we got here, and why. You listened. I listened. I laughed. You laughed. You smiled. I smiled. You said it was okay to feel out of sorts, that was normal. You still did, at times. You asked me if it was okay if you could friend me on FB. I said of course, here's my name. And unlike many people, you lived up to your word. Six months later we sat together in the same room, near the front. You were graduating. I was only in my second term. We listed to other students, famous writers, and teachers read their words. We said more things. I don't remember all of them. Then we left. We both had long drives to make. You somewhere off the 10, me up to the hills just past the 101. "Makes for a long drive, after a long day," and "Have a good night" were our last words to each other's faces. We smiled and you turned down the hallway. I went the other way, out the courtyard with white lights and a staircase up to the 5th level of the parking garage. After a while we'd settled back home. You in the same city I'd departed and me on the plains looking up to the Rockies. You offered to keep reading my stories. I offered to keep reading yours. You published a few things. I read them. I smiled. I told you thank you for being so kind. Thank you for being a light in the darkness. Then you got sick again and somehow I knew that this would be the last time. I waited. I hoped for better. But when silence replaced your posts and your words, I knew that your release would come. And now it has. I hope that the release has brought you peace. In fact, I'm certain you have found it. Because your example has given me peace. If you can do this at the end of your life, without any hope but to leave behind your words of wisdom and light, then so can I. What we knew of each other seemed small and insignificant. But what you gave was part of the greatness of the unseen. An introduction to a writer that taught me to never stray from your instincts. They're always "right." A bright blue knitted hat that made me think twice about giving up on originality. A friend when I had none. And a reason to stay open to the good in the midst of something bad. Thanks "D." Keep shining, keep touching, keep traveling, keep smiling. And most of all, keep writing, in peace.

Wings of Trust

Trust. It's a heavy and scary word. At least it is for me some of the time. It may be that way for you, too. That's part of being human, isn't it? Sometimes we trust too fast and when we shouldn't. Sometimes we don't trust something or someone we had no reason not to. And some of us find it difficult to trust our own choices. Even when we've trusted ourselves and our decisions before. Even when our younger version gave little thought to the "what-ifs" and the big, long list of pending uncertainties. I think that's because part of being young means you don't always have that lingering experience that's conditioned you to say "remember what went 'wrong' when you did this last time." You start racking up experience and if it's not positive, it makes you more hesitant (maybe even unable) to trust that something or someone.

Trust is one of those internal convictions that requires you to believe in the unseen. On the other side of the coin of trust is its cousin faith. These two don't keep balance sheets, analyze the data, or debate the list of pros and cons. Nope. These two say 'this is what I feel to be my truth' and follow it. These two are the light in ordinary darkness. They don't dwell on what might be 'wrong' with what is; they seek the possibility of change, growth, and progress. These two always say "why not?" instead of making excuses.

Trust and faith helps us reveal something about who we are. Those answers without questions. Answers that only we know. Answers that don't stop revealing their truth. Trust and faith lead us to something we couldn't have seen otherwise. Something that we don't know how to touch. Sometimes we leave that 'something' smiling. We go back to the place where we've always stared at the moon. And sometimes we don't. Sometimes we leave the familiar for that something unseen.

If we're asked if we're happy with our choice, on some days we might say yes and some days we might say no. There is no sense in torturing yourself over lives you wished you had lived. Perhaps we get to live out all of our would-be choices. We split and divide into other people. Whispers that we only hear beneath tree boughs when we stop and wonder ‘what if?’ Sometimes we see each butterfly emerge from separate trees, identical in appearance, identical in the ways they fly. But they land on separate birches, never touching, never embracing, never quite seeing every leaf on the other branch. Once in awhile the butterflies look over at each other. They stare inquisitively, wondering ‘could that be me?’ One flutters its wings. The other sits and keeps staring. For awhile they both realize ‘it is you.’

They each learn to survive on their own birch; in their own tree. And each one learns to trust their choices. Not because those choices are easy or what will happen because of them. Because they know that it doesn't matter what the answer is. It's better to just ask the question and realize that reflection is always both an illusion and a revelation.

We find what we seek, but we also find what we may not want to see.

Compassion

I've been "undecided" or "unsure" of who I was going to vote for in the upcoming election. I'm usually not someone who likes to get into a debate about politics or ideologies. Given the ideas expressed in my last post, I'm sure most of you might see why. I was "undecided" because I wanted to listen to both sides and do a little research. In every single election since I've gotten the right to vote, I have voted for candidates that represent a political party that won't receive my support in this election. At this point, I'm not sure that they'll ever receive my support again.

Growing up, I remember how our church perpetuated the idea that Planned Parenthood was "evil." I didn't understand why, I just knew to "stay away" from the one in the shopping center off of 35th Avenue. When my doctor offered to put me on birth control pills as a teen because my menstrual cycle had been irregular for years and my mother refused, I didn't understand "why." I was 13, I couldn't make those decisions on my own. What right did I have to question my parents' authority? It was drilled into me that being homosexual was a "choice," abortion was "murder" and "safe sex" was somehow unnecessary.

I suppose it is this same ideology that allowed me to wonder as a 13,14,15, almost 16-year old girl, if it would be safe to walk in my own house everyday. Would I be groped today? Would my ass be grabbed as I walked down the stairs or to the refrigerator? Would my female development be the topic of conversation? Would my nightgown be ripped near my arm or my chest? Would I have to hear lewd comments again? Would today be the day that I would be raped, as the comments continued to threaten? And if I was raped, would my pregnancy be blamed on my promiscuity? On the temptations that my developing body obviously wanted to participate in and invited? If my body hadn't been able to "shut it down," would any of this have been "legitimate"? Of course, I was 15 and a female. Nothing I said or felt was "legitimate" anyway. I must have been mistaken. I must have misunderstood. I must have "imagined" it all. I eventually said I did because somehow I still had compassion. For my father. My mother. My family. I would take the blame (again) because that was my role. And it was one that I had become so accustomed to playing that Oscar-level recognition would have been a no-brainer.

I suppose it is this same ideology that made some of my male peers think it was okay to hold me down on the grass in my own backyard and try to rip off my pants, to shove their hands onto my breasts and into my underwear when all I wanted to do was watch a movie with some friends. Of course I wanted to become a nun because I didn't want to have sex with someone I wasn't attracted to. Of course I must have liked it since I didn't feel I had the voice or the right to complain.

I'm sorry. But I cannot play this role anymore. Anyone (and I mean anyone, regardless of party affiliation, label, gender, religion, etc.) who perpetuates the idea that all members of humanity are not equal and do not deserve the same rights, does not have enough compassion to be in a position of leadership and power. Anyone who thinks that they "know" the mind and intent of a supreme being is arrogant. I do not think that a god who is supposed to be full of compassion for humanity would perpetuate a level of hate and ignorance that says it is "ok" for women to be raped, for women to be denied a choice, for women to be denied a voice, for Caucasions to rule over all other races, homosexuals to be denied basic rights and be fired from their jobs, immigrants to be denied the choice of freedom, and hard workers to be taken advantage of by the wealthy few.

I read a quote somewhere that says "the day we recognize our interdependency, and accept and embrace the oneness of humanity, is the day of resurrection for humanity." It saddens and enrages me that many of us do not get this. Many of us do not see. Many of us have thrown away the ideas and values of being a decent human being and having compassion in favor of maintaining the ideas and values of supremacy and social privileges for a choice few. What saddens and enrages me more is the fact that many do not even take the time to question and investigate what they are supporting. They blindly accept that due to a certain "label" this is the best person to represent their values. They blindly accept ideas that science refutes and use the idea of a supreme being to force it onto everyone else as "truth."

A lack of compassion is not "truth." A desire to dehumanize certain members of society is not "truth." It is about control. It is about power. And most of all, it is about fear. A fear that you may not have the answers, let alone the "right" ones. And a fear that you may have to share. You may have to become interdependent. You may have to become compassionately HUMAN.

Assumptions and Chance

Tonight I've been thinking about two things: assumptions and taking chances. Assumptions are ideas and notions that society seems to believe about certain things. Most assumptions (if not all) contain a degree of prejudice and the idea that 'one side' is 'right' and 'one side' is 'wrong.' Chances are decisions that involve risk and giving up 'something' for 'something else.' We all take chances in our lives, but the definition of what 'chance' is varies. Some of us are willing to risk different things than others. Like assumptions, our separate definitions of what taking a chance is can divide us between who is 'right' and who is 'wrong.' But to me, there is neither 'right' nor 'wrong' when it comes to taking chances and ideas. As someone who tends to understand both sides of the coin and sees why the similarities and differences can matter, I don't see the point in arguing or trying to convince someone that my way is the 'right' way.

In America, society holds the assumption that a private education is 'better' than a public one. But is that really true? I went to a public elementary school, a private middle and high school. I still had to take remedial math classes my first year of college because my high school was experimenting with self-directed learning. They handed me the math books and said 'here, learn it on your own and in groups.' That style may have worked fine for me with other subjects, but with math it was a disaster. Yet people complain about the lack of skills public school students have when they graduate. As an employee of a public school district, I see how hard everyone works every day to make sure that students are set up for success. I can honestly say that it is one of the best places I have ever worked.

I went to a state college for my undergraduate degree. I went to a private for-profit college for my MBA. I learned more in my MBA program because it was taught by professors who had more practical than theoretical experience. Yet there is the perception that online, for-profit colleges turn out crappy graduates and have sub-par programs. I can honestly say that my MBA was the toughest and most demanding degree program I have ever completed. I am satisfied with every penny I spent. In contrast, I have completed one year of an MFA program at a non-profit private university. This MFA program is consistently ranked as one of the top 10 low-residency MFA programs in the country. However, it is not at all demanding and consists of very little practical information about a professional writing career. It seems to be more of a platform for 'look at me and my work,' 'opinion pushing,' and activities that I could do on my own for free. It seems like a waste of time and a very expensive way to validate yourself as a writer, especially if you have no interest in teaching.

Of course, my views and my feelings on this aren't necessarily 'right' or 'wrong.' Someone else could have a completely opposite opinion, and that would be okay. Why? Because not all of us have the same goals, background (i.e. perception based on environment & circumstances), and values. Some of us desire power and our name up in lights on a marquee board. Some of us desire to help people and make a difference out of the spotlight. It doesn't matter. What matters is that we all find a way to work together and appreciate our different roles in society.

I think that's where taking chances comes in too. Some of us think that it's worth it to give up a steady paycheck and our houses for smaller apartments that cost more. We'd rather live somewhere else because we think we'll have more career opportunities there and we'll be happier. Some of us have run away from home before and found out that we needed to make sure the debt was paid first. We learned that we'd rather not isolate ourselves and that a certain dot on the map doesn't mean you'll be happy. Sensibility (or a lack thereof) isn't bad or good. It's both. Taking chances comes down to what you want more. Staying or going. Holding on or letting go. Action or inaction. Both involve risk. Both are taking a chance.

Turbulence

An airplane ride over the Rocky Mountains almost always brings a little turbulence. Sometimes the force of the wind off the Front Range is enough to make the plane sway back and forth. If you're a novice at Denver International Airport descents, it almost feels like it's going to tip. Sometimes you notice the pilots are flying the plane at an angle--to keep it from doing just that.

Today was one of those days. But as the lady behind me freaked out and one of my iPod playlists blasted in my ears, I had this calm feeling everything was going to be okay. Not only because I've been on these bumpy rides before (and survived without a Bloody Mary), but because the turbulence made me smile.

Turbulence has that power, even though it seems counterintuitive. But, you're up there for the ride anyway--with no guarantees--only faith, and hope, and a view you can only imagine from the ground. You can enjoy those bumps or you can fear them. Either way, you can't stop them from coming. The wind knows what it needs to bring, but it never promises that it will be smooth and easy.

Smile. Laugh. Throw your hands up and pretend you're on a roller coaster ride, like the woman seated a few rows in front of me this morning.

Sometimes turbulence is the only way we stay awake. Sometimes turbulence is the only way we figure out how to survive.

Rebirth

After my accident, my brain changed. And consequently, my mind along with it. At the time, I was too stubborn and determined to slow down to notice any of it. I had to get back to work the next day so I could get paid, make sure all of my accounts were taken care of, and make sure that no one else at my company was inconvenienced. I also had a final to study for. And like all the finals before it, I was going to get an 'A.' No questions asked.

I was still drinking after work almost every night to wind down from the stress and the emotional taxation, so I didn't notice my inability to stay asleep for more than a few hours at a time. I also didn't notice my brain's inability to calm itself down and drift off into sleep without some sort of sedative as an aid. I didn't notice that I would wake up feeling unrested, as if I hadn't slept at all. I didn't notice the apathy, or the carelessness around my house, or the simple inability to wake up and find something joyful about the life around me. I noticed the dizziness, but I thought it was just because I was tired or exhausted. It was just my job and it would go away once the cause went away too. I don't remember if I noticed the nausea, but because it wasn't as bad as it was during the first week after the accident, I probably shrugged that off as exhaustion, too.

I didn't want to believe that there were going to be any consequences from a contusion, a concussion, a hematoma, and a scalp laceration. I'd stuffed down and ignored "the bad" and "pain" all my life; why should this accident and its aftermath be any different? Well, after I'd gotten all my 'A's' and quit the 'exhausting' job, I finally had to admit that something was different. I was different. And I was going to have to make peace with that and find different ways of doing what I had done for most of my life. And I was going to have to let go of some things, no matter how painful or how much of a struggle it would turn out to be.

When I started this blog, I wanted to give a voice to HSPs. But I am more than an HSP. I am also a traumatic brain injury survivor and so today I choose to bring a voice to that experience. I am not complaining. I know I am one of the 'lucky' ones. I am not in a coma, I am not in a hospital bed, I do not have to go through physical therapy sessions, I can still talk, and for the most part I can still think. Even if that 'thinking' is a little slower, a little more haphazard, and more frustrating when I can't quite be as 'sharp' as I used to be. But even the 'lucky' ones know the aftermath is still a struggle. You have to work slower, especially when it involves thinking, writing, or studying. You have to take many more breaks and sometimes you can only concentrate for a few minutes at a time.

Some things you can't control anymore. Like naps. You may have the intention of closing your eyes for only a few minutes, and then wake up 3 to 5 hours later wondering what happened. You want to find happiness and for a few moments you do. But then it's back to the irritation and the apathy, and the 'I just want to sleep and zone out.' Those 3-5 mile runs you used to go on? Maybe tomorrow you'll start. Maybe tomorrow you'll try walking instead. And sometimes you do. For weeks, even. But then you stop. You have to take a break. It's too much. The effort is too much. The effort of living is too much.

Not living, breathing, taking life in. No, it's the demands of living. The demands of 'our culture.' I finished a book this week about learning how to live and what's really important about living. It is only when we learn about 'dying' that we learn about 'living' is the gist of the lesson.

There are all kinds of death. There's physical, of course. And emotional; spiritual. But there's also the death of our self-concept. What we must do; what we must be; who we think we are by definitions and labels. It's all a bunch of nonsense. Silly, really. The truth is, we are everything. We will be everything. If not now, if not in this life, then soon. Pretty; ugly. Young; old. Ambitious; content. Self-serving; self-sacrificing. The list goes on.

Rebirth happens because we die. Is it something to fear? Is it something to avoid? Many of us try. Some of us eventually realize that love is what brings us back. It is what keeps us from staying away. It is why we come back.

And many of us soon find out that we're going to have to tell ourselves "I was who I was, but now I am simply something undefinable. I am simply life."

The Values Behind Choices

Everyday we are faced with choices. It's part of the gift that we're given when we come here. By "here," I mean the human experience. I love the gift, even though it brings heartache, deliberation, triumphs, and crises. What I love even more is that you almost always have the opportunity to "re-choose" as long as you keep living.

But why do we make certain choices? And why do people faced with the same set of "circumstances" and/or "facts" make different ones? I think it comes down to values--what each of us deems as more important or more true to who we are. Although I do believe that there are some external things in life that we do not choose (e.g. child abuse, rape, child poverty), at many points in our lives we have the ability to make both internal and external choices.

When faced with an environment, a situation, a job, or a relationship that begins to violate one of your values, you must make a choice. You must decide what is more important. I believe that one of the signs that change needs to occur is unhappiness or conflict. Sometimes that means you change your internal perspective. I think that is a good place to start--the best place to start. But when that doesn't work or it involves violating your truth, it's time to remove yourself from the environment.

So, some of you may wonder or have a hard time understanding why I might remove myself from an environment and an experience that I wanted to be a part of? Because several of my values are being violated and I deem other things to be more important. I value passion, originality, the ability to think for oneself, figuring out what I have to say vs. what others want to hear, hard work, a strong work ethic, compassion, inspiration, a down-to-earth perspective and quiet servitude over the pursuit of potential fortune and fame.

This is my truth. These are my values. These are my choices.

Happiness Always

The date is May 25th, 1977. The book is a biography about Clark Gable, a "quintessential Hollywood actor" who perhaps my father admired--like so many things that he admired about the world that brings dreams of the collective human heart to life. I am almost eight months old and this date is my parents' anniversary. My father wishes my mother love, a long life, and happiness always. Of course by giving her a book about Hollywood life for a present he has only wanted to share his love of something he sees as wonderful. So wonderful that he has neglected to realize that she does not care about these things--she is, after all, from California. A place she still speaks of as being "elite, snobbish, vain, self-centered, and about gaining power and recognition at any cost." Their daughter would say that both of them are right, to some degree.

But this book (which is now mine) and his words penned in his own handwriting on the inside flap, is one of the few tangible things I have left of my father. It is one of the few pieces that give me some insight into who he was. And into who his daughter might be. The funny thing is that biology has more influence over some things, I think, than we care to realize. This is a man that did not raise me beyond the age of five, but whose personality and love for that world of "something wonderful" has somehow instilled itself into my veins. At this moment running through the coincidences is too difficult because the realization of what could have been between us is too painful.

Still, what remains in these words from my father is happiness always. The happiness that comes from realizing that I don't really have to wonder who my father was or hold onto the "bad" things that I was told about him. Perhaps they were real. Perhaps he lived in a time when sensitivity wasn't understood at all and perceived incorrectly. Because what I see and feel in these words is human. A little poetic. A little bit of a dreamer. A little bit of me.

Breaking Ground

When I started this journey of "reinvention" someone very close to my heart 'told' me that I would need to be strong. That person (or his/her essence) was right. I 'replied' that I was okay with that, I could do it, I would do it. At the time I wasn't sure how I was going to be tested, what obstacles I would need to overcome, what truths I would need to face, and what I would need to let go of in order to gain. But this person had faith that I could and has been an encouraging source of wisdom, even in past words spoken about his/her own artistic journey. The gist of those words is that you can't worry about fulfilling the truths of other people; you have to choose your own.

I'm good at hiding my truth. My entire life I've stuffed it down into the pit of my stomach. And there it has churned, some of it slowly evaporating--the other parts ready to erupt, at any given moment, like a dormant volcano brought back to life.

I wish I could tell you what my truth is; all its pieces. But the thing is, I don't even know. Some of those pieces I've rediscovered. Some of them are hidden even from me. Who wants to dwell in darkness and despair? I worry about it--the darkness. The way it encroaches when you're not looking or not paying attention to anything but the sunlight. It used to frighten me at night so I'd turn up the radio, shivering underneath a pile of blankets in 80 degree heat. My truth could've been so simple, but it wasn't.

I've gotten so close to running away, so many times. Each time I've failed to do it because the path didn't exist yet and I would be alone. At first I didn't want to disappoint her. She was my mother. And she was supposed to love me. But it never felt like she did. So I looked for it in a place I shouldn't have. Behind a desk full of books. A piece of paper. A pencil. An eraser. A somebody who would say you're good enough. Gold stars for doing exactly as I asked.

But that path is just a line of shiny stickers that doesn't amount to much, really. And some things are better left to the heart, dreams, and open possibilities than definitions, thinking, and following the rules of a well-intentioned elite consensus. Surrender. It's not an easy choice. And its scary and it doesn't make sense at first. But somehow the pieces already know how they're going to connect. And you would miss the joy and the mystery of the journey if you didn't allow yourself to discover it as it unfolds.

The changes that we end up making aren't always the ones that we first thought we would. But they're the ones that we need to make the most--the paths that we need to abandon as we break ground on something new and unseen, yet familiar and illuminating. Something forgotten that we once buried beneath sand and have now returned to dig up so that we can finally become free.

Empowerment

No one can determine who I am But myself My parents can not My teachers can not My friends can not They can guide me But in the final analysis The problem is completely mine For I have abilities That are completely unique to me And the challenge of Life Is for me To discover them To develop them To use them For then and only then Will I know Who I am -Javan

I'm sorry if I have faith in my ability to see my story through and I'm sorry that I know how to follow my own instincts and not be completely controlled by others. I'm sorry I like to think for myself instead of letting my work be created for me by consensus. They didn't think I could actually do my last job either, but I did it. And I did it just fine--my way. As I go through the boxes, the old papers, the old self, I find remnants of yesterday's wisdom. The kind of pieces that make you smile and feel good about today's challenges. You realize that you don't have to apologize for who you are or hide her. There won't be any apologies for following your own vision. There is no more trying to figure out how to please someone else best. You have everything you need. Strength instilled by survival becomes release. There's nothing to worry about, whispers the wind. It doesn't matter what you choose. You are already happy. The courage to awake doesn't need to be found. It has always been and will always be here.

Words from a 15 Year Old Girl

It's almost scary how she already knew.....

9-17-1992

"When someone special comes into your life you wonder what will happen next. Every day has its turns, its ups and downs. The important thing is to keep going, to never give up. Believe in yourself. Never give up. You'll only regret it if you do. Look towards that person. Learn from them, but don't try to become them. Be your own person. Find yourself, for someday they will leave. Maybe one day they'll come back, but it's unlikely. Even if they do it won't be near the same the second time around. Tell them how you feel, let yourself go, be free. Free to live, free to love yourself, free to be yourself, free to believe that you can do it, free to stand up for yourself, free to accomplish your goals, make your dreams come through. Have fun, for life is short. Make sure those who you love know it. Spend time with them and yourself. Don't try to change anyone, you'll just waste your time. Instead change yourself. Change your reactions. Never mope around the house. Do something about your problems. Solve them positively. You have the power within your mind. Once you become determined, look out world. For no one and nothing will be able to stop you."

Done Thinking; Out Manifesting

Every great work, every big accomplishment, has been brought into manifestation through holding to the vision, and often just before the big achievement, comes apparent failure and discouragement.-Florence Scovel Shinn

The vision must be followed by the venture. It is not enough to stare up the steps – we must step up the stairs.-Vance Havner

First say to yourself what you would be; and then do what you have to do.-Epictetus

Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.-John Keats

When a writer is creating a piece, he or she cannot possibly know what’s coming next. The journey of creating anything is analogous to the act of feeling around to see what exists in the dark. You discover bits and pieces of the whole individually and then find the connections later. There is no “yellow brick road” to follow, no sure technique or path that will get you over the last rung. You’ve simply got to trust the voices of your characters, and hope that they’ll lead you to the envisioned destination.

Everything is discovered word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph. More importantly, that discovery is hardly “set in stone” or “final.” It is subject to change at any time. The ambiguity in the writing process is analogous to a treasure hunt in a darkened cave with nothing but a small candle flame or flashlight. Who knows what you’ll find and who knows when or how. To further complicate matters, what you think you may see may not be what it first appears to be.

There will be struggles, there will be ambiguity, but there will also be plenty of exhilaration and living if the writer allows himself to let the process lead the writing and the journey. Intuition has a funny way of revealing its mystery at the end of that path, and the only way to get there is to feel each and every scene that it unravels on the way.

Believing in Yourself

"It's not who you are that holds you back, it's who you think you're not."-Anonymous

When I was working for a business process outsourcing company, one of the accounts that I contributed to had a supervisor that used to tell me (repeatedly) that it was ok for me to believe in myself. I used to feel guilty at just the thought of being able to believe in my abilities, my potential, my own perspectives, my own journey. I don't need to see a fancy psychologist to know that it stems from being told (in one way or another) that my needs didn't matter and that no matter what I did (or didn't do), it was never good enough. I'd seen and talked to enough of those by the time I was 16 to write a novel. And in the end all they get paid for is to point out what you already know deep inside. You still have to do the work. You still have to change your inner voice.

There was always that stigma that I would turn out to be a "bad, hurtful" person. But the thing is that a child doesn't choose a "bad childhood" or "bad experiences." They just happen. It doesn't make them a bad person. It certainly doesn't mean that they'll grow up and participate in anti-social behavior. Some of the most beautiful people come out of ashes and darkness. And people who have wonderful childhoods can grow up to not be so "beautiful," and commit several "bad" behaviors simply because that's who they choose to be. The real demon that you have to fight is your own inability to believe and value who you are.

Yep, I'm still fighting that demon. I haven't conquered it yet, but I'm trying. Apparently the universe has faith that I can, because it keeps showing up. A former boss who tried to make me feel incompetent and unable to go after what I thought I wanted because in reality she was threatened by my abilities and credentials. A mentor who sees her former self, but wants to project her own experiences and her own capacities onto someone else. It's funny sometimes how we end up trying to sabotage and punish ourselves through other people who either remind us of what we think we're lacking or who we just might be inside. Jealousy, envy, and competitiveness are dark traps that I consciously try to avoid. Sometimes that means ending relationships with people and situations that I otherwise love, enjoy, and truly value in some way. But there's no sense in living a lie of "toxic support."

The thing is I know who I am inside. I know what I'm capable of. I know that I have ability, knowledge, experience, talent, wisdom, insight, determination, and elasticity. And so does everyone else. The difference may be that they grew up in an environment that reinforced these beliefs by the time they were 10. I have to build and re-build my own foundation. So what? At this point I am tired of listening to external opinions about what I may or may not be capable of. Sometimes you have to go through the class twice. And the reality is that each of us are capable of accomplishing anything that we choose. But we have to believe that we can, and then we have to do the work. There's no easy path to graduation-only the inner strength that propels you to keep walking as you say "no matter what anyone thinks, I'm doing this."

Gratitude in Darkness

I have a few people to thank for this past week and a half. Some I may never see again, some I will work with in the months to come, and others I may never see in this lifetime (but who have been a silent, inexplicable force of guidance and inspiration for more years than I care to count).

Anyone who has ever come here or lived here knows L.A. is a strange city. You arrive and you're either irritated and disoriented or elated and full of excited teenage energy. Then you get homesick and wish for everything you left behind in another reality; a reality that seems like it no longer exists, except in memories and dreams. Somewhere along the way you feel like you've been here before. You've seen the sights, heard the sounds, sensed the history, driven the roads. Finally, you get sad and realize that you're leaving another place that feels like it's home. Maybe this only happens to the people who have lived too many past lives as artists and sensitives. I'm not sure I can really say. I just know what I feel every time I'm here.

The people that I would like to thank may read this and they may not. I hope that they eventually do.

Thank you to my recent workshop leader and current term mentor for showing me that you can't escape a lesson that you thought you could run away from.

To my last term mentor and workshop leader for showing me that you don't always have to know what you're going to learn.

To my workshop peers for advocating for what was right, and being sensitive to encouragement, true support, "what's working," silent thoughtfulness, and allowing yourself to stretch to your fullest potential as an artist.

To the "random" speakers, writers, and beacons of social justice for revealing that I'm far from lost. I just have a lot more "dots to connect."

To the universe for all the repeated, obvious, urgent messages of "don't give up" on the freeways, the streets, and the clocks.

To the old friends and strangers I should have spent more time with, thanks for the advice, the chats, the tears, the laughs, and the insight.

To J for being understanding when I had to cancel our plans. Here's hoping (and promising) for next time.

To my sister and brother for helping me out with "Mr. Scruff."

To my gracious hosts for letting me stay in your guest suite and giving me a place that truly felt like "home away from home." I appreciate all the extras you thought of and for inviting me to spend time with your family and friends this evening.

To the city for being beautiful at night from "above." Beauty and light exist in all different shapes and forms when we stop to breathe.

To the other half of who I truly am-thanks for guiding me to the right street when the directions couldn't, and for your constant "vibes" of understanding and support. I couldn't ask for a more beautiful reflection of my side of the rainbow.

And finally to that part of myself that knows this point in my journey is happening so that I can get "lost" and "let go" in order to become one with whomever and "whatever" I need to serve.

Uncertainty, Surprises, Resolution

It shouldn't surprise me that I got homesick on the second day of my residency. Despite feeling strangely connected to this city, I want to go home. By home, I mean Colorado. Yes, freezing in the winter, boring, conservative, culturally and diversity depraved Colorado. It's Sunday and I just spent another hour or so fighting traffic to get back to the studio apartment I'm renting in the Hollywood Hills while I'm here. I used to hate to drive in this kind of mind-numbing, always have to be in defensive driving mode traffic when I lived in FL. In June, I thought I was homesick because I was staying in a two-star hotel that was missing the conveniences of my condo-a kitchen, a living room, landscaping, etc. It was my first time staying in a two-star hotel in god knows when, but I had decided to be frugal. So frugal that I'd forgotten that once you get used to a certain level of comfort and privilege you can't always regress completely.

I shouldn't be surprised at the fact that I'm ready to leave. I was always the kid that cried herself to sleep at Girl Scout camp and counted down the days until it was time for our parents to pick us up. Meadow Mountain was beautiful and it was wonderful to connect with my peers, but I wasn't comfortable with the sleeping bags, the cool nights, and the orchestration of activities that forced everyone into revealing more about themselves than they may have wanted to.

This MFA program is similar to that. Sometimes I feel elated and inspired, at other times tired and annoyed. A lot of times I wonder what I'm doing here. I don't look like most of these people. I don't have a desire to decorate myself with tattoos, wear combat boots, dye my hair extreme colors, or dress in some art nouveau fashion. Maybe my 17 or 18 year-old-self would do a few of these things. But I'm not 17. And I can't erase the fact that I chose to become someone more conservative and left-brained.

I certainly can't analyze or get energized about literature the same way they do either. Even though I know I'm still learning, I'm aware that a part of me isn't connecting. Sure, my mentor last term said she "vibes" with my work and offered to be my mentor again. I knew she was the "right one" the minute she stood up during last June's panel. She knows I'm having doubts about carrying this through. I didn't have to say anything. She just "knew." And at this point she's the only one from this term's panel that I trust with my writing.

On Saturday, I saw the 222's on the freeways. I heard the words "don't give up" during a wonderful speech by a famous writer. One that I almost didn't attend due to fatigue. Messages of synchronicity seem to be following me and I want to listen. It's just hard to not wonder where this is all going, where it's going to end up, and whether I should just return to that life of soul-sucking jobs that pay enough to afford two or three annual prepaid trips to a tropical beach.

I guess it takes time to go through a metamorphosis. The surprise is that I thought this might feel different. The way I used to feel at 17. But you can only discover something new once. And the minute you decide to abandon something, you can't really recapture what might've been.

What I know from getting lost before is that it's better to stay calm, create a sense of stillness in your mind, and connect to something that knows exactly how to guide you. I also know that there's something about familiarizing yourself with the new that can create a sense of panic and uncertainty. The part of you that is aware of your present surroundings is paradoxically unaware. Another part of you that sees the entire circle of your life gives you the needed answers at just the right moment. Not through something that's obvious, but by means of random synergy.

Maybe there's a place for me somewhere in this world. Maybe it's a wrong exit and I'm going to have to turn around and get myself back on the freeway. A journey that makes the best use of all that you are capable of doesn't end on one street. Within my heart is the urge to write. That alone makes me a writer-not a book deal, a list of published works, freelance gigs, and spending time with a group of "serious writers." This may just be a hobby, not a profession. I'm okay with that.

I'm a woman of diverse tastes, interests, talents, and aspirations. A woman who doesn't want to live in a fishbowl or limit herself to an idealized version of reality. Someone whom I think is willing to listen, but needs a layover in order to hear her own voice and what rings true.

And like a few people have said to me "no matter what you do, you're going to be good at it. You're just that kind of a person."

Miracles on 777 Street

Christmas reminds people of miracles, of hope, and the possibility of goodness that lies within each of us. The light displays twinkle on the lamp posts, the houses, the trees and the shopping malls. Churches become full again and people gather together to celebrate the bond of being in this dream and struggle we call life.

I used to walk the streets in the early morning hours during this season. The air was crisp and cold enough to chap every exposed layer of skin. It was a safe collection of neighborhoods, full of mostly "blue bloods," successful business owners and retirees who were just grateful to get their papers on time and placed in the right spots. I was never scared, even though a twenty something young lady might be by herself in the dark, with nothing but silent stars and colorful displays of Christmas lights left on overnight.

But every season it was the same. I'd get phone calls, extra tips, plates of homemade cookies and cards of gratitude from people who only knew me by my name and my work ethic. In a box those cards still exist, waiting for the right moment to be reopened and reread. Despite the fact that I was only doing this "job" for extra money to pay off my car lease and some of the debt I incurred as an undergraduate student, it became a little something extra. A source of simple joy and unlikely friendship-the kind that's harder to notice as the gray hair and the wrinkles become more prevalent.

Every so often, I still drive down those streets, breathe in the clean, cold air, and see the Christmas lights dancing beneath a dark blanket, sprinkled with reminders of what could be. It was a time in my life that was filled with small miracles that I'll always be fond of. An example of what it really means to have given, received and achieved success; a gesture or two of private recognition for dreaming the dream with conviction, determination, welcoming warmth and spunk. No Oscars, red carpet premieres, or literary Nobel Prizes. Just a group of neighbors saying thanks for making the journey a little bit easier.