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.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Saturday, June 9, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Peace
People search all of their lives for contentment. A source of joy. A source of relief. A feeling of freedom. They think that a certain path or a certain destination will make them happy. So they search for it in other people, in things, pieces of paper, careers, a lover, a marriage, a tangible something. When they are done with all those experiments, some of them realize that happiness is something that cannot be defined, bottled, inked, or manifested through something external to one's own mind and heart.
I've learned that the things we get the most excited about are those things that end up disappointing us the most, somehow. As one of the replicas of myself says The air outside the coffee shop felt too much like what she’d left. Always deceiving you with its lazy glamour and promises of paradise. She’d fallen into that trap once and found herself hating what she’d once loved. That's the thing about anything external. It can't live up to promises that the soul wishes to keep.
So the only thing we can do as humans is realize that happiness is not a temporal feeling or something that we can find, or seek, or capture. It is something that is already free, something that already exists and yet cannot be touched, or seen, or realized unless we stop seeing what we see. It is internal. It is peace. It is contentment. It is calm.
It is the place that we never leave, the person that we know and smile back at, the mountain that we only think we have to climb. It is that illusion that we chase. That illusion that changes each time we change. Peace and contentment are not horizons that we imagine we will someday become a part of. They are things that Nature does automatically. Simple breaths. Simple acceptance. Simple Being. Not as what it thinks it should be, but as what it already is.
That elusive thing we humans call "happiness" is an illusion because it can only exist within each of us. It can only exist in how we see.
I've learned that the things we get the most excited about are those things that end up disappointing us the most, somehow. As one of the replicas of myself says The air outside the coffee shop felt too much like what she’d left. Always deceiving you with its lazy glamour and promises of paradise. She’d fallen into that trap once and found herself hating what she’d once loved. That's the thing about anything external. It can't live up to promises that the soul wishes to keep.
So the only thing we can do as humans is realize that happiness is not a temporal feeling or something that we can find, or seek, or capture. It is something that is already free, something that already exists and yet cannot be touched, or seen, or realized unless we stop seeing what we see. It is internal. It is peace. It is contentment. It is calm.
It is the place that we never leave, the person that we know and smile back at, the mountain that we only think we have to climb. It is that illusion that we chase. That illusion that changes each time we change. Peace and contentment are not horizons that we imagine we will someday become a part of. They are things that Nature does automatically. Simple breaths. Simple acceptance. Simple Being. Not as what it thinks it should be, but as what it already is.
That elusive thing we humans call "happiness" is an illusion because it can only exist within each of us. It can only exist in how we see.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Butterfly Colors Continued
You’re going to have to choose. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually, you have to choose. It isn’t easy, that choice. And people wait. And people hope. For us to choose. For us to say yes. So that we can start living. And realize how precious time is. How precious those things about life are that we can’t grasp when we’re not sick, when we think we have everything, when we believe in only what we see, when we aren’t forced to tell ourselves the truth.
Some of the paths that we choose to take look polished, pristine, and safe. Some are ambiguous because they're a little narrower, are comprised of gravel instead of blacktop, and curve around the shadows of things we can't see unless we keep following what has already been laid out for us. A few don't exist yet because we're the ones who are going to have to break the ground and carve them out. The few of us who spend the time to envision something that hasn't been done yet, and who might make it a little easier for those who come after us, are the ones that travel alone.
The last stretch of that path was the toughest because the garden was so near. You could say that you saw it without ever walking in it, or sitting on its benches, or touching its orange red flowers, or staring at the city through the outlines of two palm trees, or watching the bird bounce up and down into the valley on a carpet of wind. But that wasn’t what she wanted--a side view or an almost there feel. So there went her left foot, and then her right, and then her left again. She turned on the spicket of water, filling her mouth, her throat, her stomach. It tasted a little like the bronze metal it had come from, but it was cool enough to splash and rub against her skin. Dante’s View, read the sign. Like Dante’s Inferno, she thought. Tricky to get to without a map or a GPS. But like any destination without a blueprint, an adventurous surprise.
Some of the paths that we choose to take look polished, pristine, and safe. Some are ambiguous because they're a little narrower, are comprised of gravel instead of blacktop, and curve around the shadows of things we can't see unless we keep following what has already been laid out for us. A few don't exist yet because we're the ones who are going to have to break the ground and carve them out. The few of us who spend the time to envision something that hasn't been done yet, and who might make it a little easier for those who come after us, are the ones that travel alone.
The last stretch of that path was the toughest because the garden was so near. You could say that you saw it without ever walking in it, or sitting on its benches, or touching its orange red flowers, or staring at the city through the outlines of two palm trees, or watching the bird bounce up and down into the valley on a carpet of wind. But that wasn’t what she wanted--a side view or an almost there feel. So there went her left foot, and then her right, and then her left again. She turned on the spicket of water, filling her mouth, her throat, her stomach. It tasted a little like the bronze metal it had come from, but it was cool enough to splash and rub against her skin. Dante’s View, read the sign. Like Dante’s Inferno, she thought. Tricky to get to without a map or a GPS. But like any destination without a blueprint, an adventurous surprise.
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