It's 8:15am in Prague, at the Clown and Bard Hostel.
9hrs behind is Seattle, WA. 11:15pm, yesterday.I am reading a book Jenni lent me called, Off the Path. It's about two American girls who escape to Europe seeking redefinition of their selves and their lives. The first paragraph defines the timelessness of travel, how once you're on a plane with nowhere to be or to stay on the receiving end of that plane, you are essentially free.
Timelessness is delicious, and in my opinion, essential in moderate doses to the mental well being of the species.
Prague seems simple, and beautifully basic. Practical. What is needed is here. The trains and buses go where people and sights are. There are small stores full of essential items underneath floors of soft cemented flats all blended together, differentiated only by varying shades of pastel paint colors.
It's so quiet here. My six-block walk from the train to the hostel produced maybe five people. No sirens, no rushing, no beeping cars, no zooming bicycles, no blaring tv's or radios. Just stone-cut sidewalks and a gentle chilly breeze gracing the towering endless soft concrete flats. It seemed like they could all be empty.
I discovered the TV tower om my walk to the hostel. It is almost the most absurd public structure I have ever seen. It ranks up there with Seattle's Space Needle, the gigantic Peach on a post on the side of an Interstate in Georgia, the Eiffel Tower, and those millions of agent-orange frames with matching flags that graced New York City's Central Park one fall. The TV tower looks like a massive melted Lego wrapped around a red cell tower with, I shit you not, steely grey sculptures of giant infants crawling up and down the legs of the tower.
I love absurd public art, especially when two elements are present:
1) It's functional. The structure being graced by the art provides a service to the greater community, therefore the community is then committed in some fashion to pay its grateful homage to said structure. If, by neccessity it needs to be a massive and intrusive thing, it might as well be decked out and made original. Turn it into a spectacle or an amusing conversation piece. The Space Needle barely makes this cut for me, as it's only current function is to serve wealthy tourists a view of greycoated sky and an expensive meal and provide a modicum of uniqueness to Seattle's skyline.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Friday, June 27, 2008
100 Thing Challenge
Oh, yeah. It's on.
I was poking around the Web this evening and found this guy who is doing this challenge to only own 100 things for one whole year.
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1812048,00.html
www.guynameddave.com
So, given the unique opportunity I have to slowly, consciously and deliberately move items from one living space to another, I've decided to give this a go. Why not? I seem to always desire a challenge in my life. And I do have a desire to live as simply as possible, and this sounds like a reasonable however arbitrary place to start.
A lot of people seem to ask, "What counts as one thing?" A pair of shoes? Or the category of "Shoes" itself? I don't know what it means to me yet. It was recommended to simply start first by setting out an intention or a vision of what I would like my life to look like. Then as I go through the stuff, keep aligning myself with my vision of the way I want to live, and decide if that thing in my hand can support me in that.
I am hoping to find a way to incorporate the box of paper journals I have kept for years...I would like to type them up and get them published. I wonder if they'd be useful to anyone...well, hmm. Best I start with the vision, and go from there.
"What is the vision you have for the life you want?"
Simplicity. A simple life, that is uncomplicated.
Peaceful success. A space to come home to where I can unwind, work through my struggles and celebrate my acheivements and transformation into a physician, a healer, and a lover of life.
Space to breathe. Time to breathe. Space and time to enjoy space and time.
"What do I need for this space?"
Well I will start with the things I'm obviously attached to, and then try to talk my way out of attachment to them:
1) the car -- it gets me where I want to be, and slightly essential for a student who lives 14 miles from school and 8 miles from clinic. Although I am very hip to riding the bus, I am not quite ready to ditch the car.
2) the bedframe -- I'm a fan of this bedframe because it doubles as 6-drawer storage. No need for a dresser with this baby around.
3) the bed mattress -- Yay for comfy mattress.
4) pillow
5, 6, 7) stuffed animals from childhood -- nostalgia and the visceral sense of safety is a hard one to argue with.
8) Clothing -- oh hell. If each article of clothing counts as one item, then I'm basically fucked. Let's see if I can break it down a bit.
* hats
* t-shirts
* clinic clothes (what if I limit myself to a few outfits? say 5? or maybe a few cool combo things...)
* shoes
* the bathrobe
* flannel jammie bottoms ( I can get rid of all but one of these, I'm sure)
* scarves
* socks
* sweaters/ sweatshirts/ jackets
* ehh...next topic
9) Books - it's almost unfair to make a medical student count each book as a separate item. One kind of doesn't know what kind of resources they'll need in a few years, a few months or a few hours.
10) the computer
11) the papasan chair
12) the desk
13, 14, 15, 16) bookshelves -- is this any hint of how many books I may have? no fair.
17) the medical bag and all of its contents -- this just has to count as its own one thing. there's kinda no way around needing the 20 or so items in there.
18) For a couch, I'd love to purchase one of these: http://www.pillowfurniture.com/Loveseats.html
19, 20) coffee tables -- one for writing and eating and using the computer on, and the other as an altar in the bedroom.
21) my drum -- can all my shamanic stuff count as one thing? I can condense it...oh dear this is getting challenging, I can see.
Things that fall into the "I-may-need-it-someday-as-a-practitioner" category
9) Books -- see above
22) the massage table
23) the manip table
the other option was to give away one thing a day for an entire year...I wonder if I could do that instead...give up 365 things in one go. maybe I'll give that a shot. Perhaps I'll try doing both during this purging process, and hopefully my efforts will psh me through towards a new way of thinking about the stuff I keep in my life.
I was poking around the Web this evening and found this guy who is doing this challenge to only own 100 things for one whole year.
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1812048,00.html
www.guynameddave.com
So, given the unique opportunity I have to slowly, consciously and deliberately move items from one living space to another, I've decided to give this a go. Why not? I seem to always desire a challenge in my life. And I do have a desire to live as simply as possible, and this sounds like a reasonable however arbitrary place to start.
A lot of people seem to ask, "What counts as one thing?" A pair of shoes? Or the category of "Shoes" itself? I don't know what it means to me yet. It was recommended to simply start first by setting out an intention or a vision of what I would like my life to look like. Then as I go through the stuff, keep aligning myself with my vision of the way I want to live, and decide if that thing in my hand can support me in that.
I am hoping to find a way to incorporate the box of paper journals I have kept for years...I would like to type them up and get them published. I wonder if they'd be useful to anyone...well, hmm. Best I start with the vision, and go from there.
"What is the vision you have for the life you want?"
Simplicity. A simple life, that is uncomplicated.
Peaceful success. A space to come home to where I can unwind, work through my struggles and celebrate my acheivements and transformation into a physician, a healer, and a lover of life.
Space to breathe. Time to breathe. Space and time to enjoy space and time.
"What do I need for this space?"
Well I will start with the things I'm obviously attached to, and then try to talk my way out of attachment to them:
1) the car -- it gets me where I want to be, and slightly essential for a student who lives 14 miles from school and 8 miles from clinic. Although I am very hip to riding the bus, I am not quite ready to ditch the car.
2) the bedframe -- I'm a fan of this bedframe because it doubles as 6-drawer storage. No need for a dresser with this baby around.
3) the bed mattress -- Yay for comfy mattress.
4) pillow
5, 6, 7) stuffed animals from childhood -- nostalgia and the visceral sense of safety is a hard one to argue with.
8) Clothing -- oh hell. If each article of clothing counts as one item, then I'm basically fucked. Let's see if I can break it down a bit.
* hats
* t-shirts
* clinic clothes (what if I limit myself to a few outfits? say 5? or maybe a few cool combo things...)
* shoes
* the bathrobe
* flannel jammie bottoms ( I can get rid of all but one of these, I'm sure)
* scarves
* socks
* sweaters/ sweatshirts/ jackets
* ehh...next topic
9) Books - it's almost unfair to make a medical student count each book as a separate item. One kind of doesn't know what kind of resources they'll need in a few years, a few months or a few hours.
10) the computer
11) the papasan chair
12) the desk
13, 14, 15, 16) bookshelves -- is this any hint of how many books I may have? no fair.
17) the medical bag and all of its contents -- this just has to count as its own one thing. there's kinda no way around needing the 20 or so items in there.
18) For a couch, I'd love to purchase one of these: http://www.pillowfurniture.com/Loveseats.html
19, 20) coffee tables -- one for writing and eating and using the computer on, and the other as an altar in the bedroom.
21) my drum -- can all my shamanic stuff count as one thing? I can condense it...oh dear this is getting challenging, I can see.
Things that fall into the "I-may-need-it-someday-as-a-practitioner" category
9) Books -- see above
22) the massage table
23) the manip table
the other option was to give away one thing a day for an entire year...I wonder if I could do that instead...give up 365 things in one go. maybe I'll give that a shot. Perhaps I'll try doing both during this purging process, and hopefully my efforts will psh me through towards a new way of thinking about the stuff I keep in my life.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Why am I moving?
Why am I moving?
I have been asked that a lot recently. I have more positive reasons than negative ones, for sure. The positive reasons are neat: my friend will be next door, there is private garden space, the place is small and cozy, and I have the time to move in slowly, picking the things I really want to take and be very conscious of what I am taking and why. And very consciously releasing that which I am choosing to let go of.
The negative reasons are, well, negative. The foot traffic around the place frankly has me nervous: I feel generally uneasy about walking through my own neighborhood, and I hate that. I get hollered at when I work in the garden. I get ignored or glared at when I go to the dollar store. The car speakers rattle my windows. I have walked through police lines to get home. The cops are always circling the block. Hoodies like to collect on the other side of the street, dropping their wrappers down the sidewalk. I walk through the neighborhood, and feel the possession within the houses: there is some nasty shit that had been called up and is lurking throughout the houses in this neighborhood. It kind of hurts my heart to live here, because I don't feel strong or safe enough to protect myself as I become more and more of my authentic self.
I feel like I have failed this place. Like I was brought here to help heal this place, to clear it out, to help heal and beautify the neighborhood. Instead I just kinda dumped my stuff here: some of it is still in the boxes I packed up over a year ago. And then I wonder if that is my own sad delusion of grandeur and martyrdom. This is a sick neighborhood, one that is possessed and one that is at war with itself and with "progress". Me living here doesn't melt away injustice or poverty or prejudice. It doesn't erase sexism, classism, or racism. Especially if all I do is either be at school or be inside the house. Maybe that's why I came here. To readdress all of these feelings and expectations and senses. These are all familiar feelings I had growing up in Miami. And what I have learned is that I don't have to live anywhere when I don't feel comfortable. I know that often I don't feel comfortable and I blame my environment for it. I know one day I would really like to settle down and find a place that I totally am in love with and would stay there forever. I don't know when that is or will be. I guess I was kind of hoping it would be this place, and I wonder if I gave it enough of a chance.
This house is in transition as well, as is it's tenants and owner. Everything is changing.
I have been asked that a lot recently. I have more positive reasons than negative ones, for sure. The positive reasons are neat: my friend will be next door, there is private garden space, the place is small and cozy, and I have the time to move in slowly, picking the things I really want to take and be very conscious of what I am taking and why. And very consciously releasing that which I am choosing to let go of.
The negative reasons are, well, negative. The foot traffic around the place frankly has me nervous: I feel generally uneasy about walking through my own neighborhood, and I hate that. I get hollered at when I work in the garden. I get ignored or glared at when I go to the dollar store. The car speakers rattle my windows. I have walked through police lines to get home. The cops are always circling the block. Hoodies like to collect on the other side of the street, dropping their wrappers down the sidewalk. I walk through the neighborhood, and feel the possession within the houses: there is some nasty shit that had been called up and is lurking throughout the houses in this neighborhood. It kind of hurts my heart to live here, because I don't feel strong or safe enough to protect myself as I become more and more of my authentic self.
I feel like I have failed this place. Like I was brought here to help heal this place, to clear it out, to help heal and beautify the neighborhood. Instead I just kinda dumped my stuff here: some of it is still in the boxes I packed up over a year ago. And then I wonder if that is my own sad delusion of grandeur and martyrdom. This is a sick neighborhood, one that is possessed and one that is at war with itself and with "progress". Me living here doesn't melt away injustice or poverty or prejudice. It doesn't erase sexism, classism, or racism. Especially if all I do is either be at school or be inside the house. Maybe that's why I came here. To readdress all of these feelings and expectations and senses. These are all familiar feelings I had growing up in Miami. And what I have learned is that I don't have to live anywhere when I don't feel comfortable. I know that often I don't feel comfortable and I blame my environment for it. I know one day I would really like to settle down and find a place that I totally am in love with and would stay there forever. I don't know when that is or will be. I guess I was kind of hoping it would be this place, and I wonder if I gave it enough of a chance.
This house is in transition as well, as is it's tenants and owner. Everything is changing.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
after watching 14 consecutive episodes of "24" in one sitting...
contrived entertainment
that breeds hypervigilance
suddenly everything is important
even Facebook and open windows
is it silly to desire escape?
selfish to indulge?
manipulate my creative force
into whatever you would have
suck on it
my attention serves no purpose to you
it is all my own
and i give it over willingly
to you
the screen
the machine
convince me of your perception
of my naivety
rock me back to sleep
within unconscience
it serves you none
it is simply what you are
teach us to use responsibly
and with intention
that breeds hypervigilance
suddenly everything is important
even Facebook and open windows
is it silly to desire escape?
selfish to indulge?
manipulate my creative force
into whatever you would have
suck on it
my attention serves no purpose to you
it is all my own
and i give it over willingly
to you
the screen
the machine
convince me of your perception
of my naivety
rock me back to sleep
within unconscience
it serves you none
it is simply what you are
teach us to use responsibly
and with intention
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Creative Family Love
So it's time to write today. It's been an easier, gentler reminder since I've changed my homepage to the blogger site.
Today was a day of slowness. There was all the time in the world to be taken. I rushed for maybe half an hour when I thought I was going to miss a bus, and then I wound up being twenty minutes early for it. Lazily I crocheted a baby blanket on the fifty minute bus ride to Kirsten's house. We loafed around there, taking time for conversation and music. She and Will and I stopped for coffee and sweet treats on our way to Tamar and Sarah's baby shower. Our friends were there. My family. And there was sweetness and laughter and comfort and space and support and all kinds of yummy food and delightful children and so so much to be shared.
I do love a list. On a morbid note, I used to make lists of who would come to my funeral. Today, to honor the sincere joy I felt today in having remained alive to experience this day exactly as it was, I'd like to make a list of my "family", those who were present today that impressed upon me all the love and care and sweetness aforementioned.
Tamar Blau, Sarah Berrier, and Little Boy Blau-Berrier
Bill Walter, Margot Lovinger, and the fabulous Elliot Graham Walter
Kirsten and Will Schaeffer
Matt and Katie Carlson
Ryan and Melissa Campbell
Elias Kass
Wendy Hueners
Ryan Robbins
Akiko Kato and the little angel Kazuma
Phil and Rebecca and Xara
My brothers and sisters, I love you. You make my world safe and rich and my days worth living. You are a blessing to my life and a light in my heart. A light I carry close as I traverse the darkness. A light that guides me to a place I call home.
Today was a day of slowness. There was all the time in the world to be taken. I rushed for maybe half an hour when I thought I was going to miss a bus, and then I wound up being twenty minutes early for it. Lazily I crocheted a baby blanket on the fifty minute bus ride to Kirsten's house. We loafed around there, taking time for conversation and music. She and Will and I stopped for coffee and sweet treats on our way to Tamar and Sarah's baby shower. Our friends were there. My family. And there was sweetness and laughter and comfort and space and support and all kinds of yummy food and delightful children and so so much to be shared.
I do love a list. On a morbid note, I used to make lists of who would come to my funeral. Today, to honor the sincere joy I felt today in having remained alive to experience this day exactly as it was, I'd like to make a list of my "family", those who were present today that impressed upon me all the love and care and sweetness aforementioned.
Tamar Blau, Sarah Berrier, and Little Boy Blau-Berrier
Bill Walter, Margot Lovinger, and the fabulous Elliot Graham Walter
Kirsten and Will Schaeffer
Matt and Katie Carlson
Ryan and Melissa Campbell
Elias Kass
Wendy Hueners
Ryan Robbins
Akiko Kato and the little angel Kazuma
Phil and Rebecca and Xara
My brothers and sisters, I love you. You make my world safe and rich and my days worth living. You are a blessing to my life and a light in my heart. A light I carry close as I traverse the darkness. A light that guides me to a place I call home.
Monday, March 24, 2008
This was not a wasted day
This was not a wasted day.
Three days prior, there was crisis. Drama. From seemingly out of nowhere. Yet upon reflection, the vague lines leading to probable contributing causes revealed themselves. The half-day of sugar indulgence. The practice of stripping away ego roles in class. The heightened blessing of perfection in a walk in the woods with a sweet being. The stepping out onto a limb, bearing a raw confession of love interest. The exposure of being authentic. The stepping into a physician's role, ever more realizing what it means and what it takes. The sudden disbandment, the loss of structure.
Flailing.
Gratitude and blessings to all who stepped in to check in on me. Ironically, they were all men. I think it was only men I called that night as well. Perhaps this is why:
I have been wanting to enter a relationship with a man (or men: as a theoretical polygamist, I am open to not counting) for some time now. Curious as to what needed to happen in order to manifest this, I did a reading on it this morning. The main message I got was to go easy with the analytical aspects, to continue healing the heart, and to focus on the family. I interpreted "family" to mean my inner family. Checking in with my inner man, I found him beyond exhaustion (poor guy). When asked what he wanted, he merely wanted to sleep. So, instead of packing up and schlepping off to volunteer at a homeless clinic today, I slept off and on for ost of the day. I didn't change out of my PJ's until 6pm and that was only to go to the grocery store (my inner woman was like, "Dude I know you're tired, but you also don't have anything to eat").
So I had to get over the notion that laying around in PJ's, doing Tarot readings, sitting in silence, and blogging are not wastes of time. I'd argue that is no such thing as wasted time. It's all a manifestation of one's priorities. Whatever you're doing, wherever you're putting your energy, those are your priorities. And I think today I showed myself that my priority to myself is still intact.
And now, a poem about relationship:
I am craving
I am craving that one
I am craving that one who is strong
I am craving that one who is strong enough
I am craving that one who is strong enough to hold me
I am craving that one who is strong enough to hold me to my word
Take me down,
back into my body
Take me home,
straight into my heart
Take me back,
when I have been brutal
Take me over,
when I have dissolved
Take me in,
when I am full
Take me up,
in your embrace
Take me and
give me back again.
And may I offer you
the same.
Three days prior, there was crisis. Drama. From seemingly out of nowhere. Yet upon reflection, the vague lines leading to probable contributing causes revealed themselves. The half-day of sugar indulgence. The practice of stripping away ego roles in class. The heightened blessing of perfection in a walk in the woods with a sweet being. The stepping out onto a limb, bearing a raw confession of love interest. The exposure of being authentic. The stepping into a physician's role, ever more realizing what it means and what it takes. The sudden disbandment, the loss of structure.
Flailing.
Gratitude and blessings to all who stepped in to check in on me. Ironically, they were all men. I think it was only men I called that night as well. Perhaps this is why:
I have been wanting to enter a relationship with a man (or men: as a theoretical polygamist, I am open to not counting) for some time now. Curious as to what needed to happen in order to manifest this, I did a reading on it this morning. The main message I got was to go easy with the analytical aspects, to continue healing the heart, and to focus on the family. I interpreted "family" to mean my inner family. Checking in with my inner man, I found him beyond exhaustion (poor guy). When asked what he wanted, he merely wanted to sleep. So, instead of packing up and schlepping off to volunteer at a homeless clinic today, I slept off and on for ost of the day. I didn't change out of my PJ's until 6pm and that was only to go to the grocery store (my inner woman was like, "Dude I know you're tired, but you also don't have anything to eat").
So I had to get over the notion that laying around in PJ's, doing Tarot readings, sitting in silence, and blogging are not wastes of time. I'd argue that is no such thing as wasted time. It's all a manifestation of one's priorities. Whatever you're doing, wherever you're putting your energy, those are your priorities. And I think today I showed myself that my priority to myself is still intact.
And now, a poem about relationship:
I am craving
I am craving that one
I am craving that one who is strong
I am craving that one who is strong enough
I am craving that one who is strong enough to hold me
I am craving that one who is strong enough to hold me to my word
Take me down,
back into my body
Take me home,
straight into my heart
Take me back,
when I have been brutal
Take me over,
when I have dissolved
Take me in,
when I am full
Take me up,
in your embrace
Take me and
give me back again.
And may I offer you
the same.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Week In Review -- Deeper
Everyone has been saying that it's been a week from hell. I tend to find that sort of gossip comforting, since I observe a real quality relation between human experince and the alignment of the stars. But that comfort comes a week too late, and barely scratches the surface of the energy twist compacting heart fuck that has been my life this past week. It was nice, though, to end the week with that thought.
The start of the week began, let's say on Saturday. That coincides with the beginning of my cycle. I began bleeding that morning, just in time to drum for a soul retrieval. Apparently I needed the protection. After a *long* session, lasting almost six hours, the practitioner and I were winding down, sharing stories. Then she totally blows my mind (probably hers was blown as well) when she suddenly tells me to close my eyes, that she's got a gift for me. When I open my eyes, she's offering up her Owl wing to the four directions, Mother Earth, Father, Sky and Mystery before placing it in my hands.
It's times like this that I wish I could feel deeper, that I could allow myself to feel as moved as I "should" be. I wanted to be so moved in that moment that I cried. She was definitely crying; this was a wing she had done ceremony on herself and worked closely with for over two years. Instead I laughed. In some ways, laughing is like crying, I suppose. It's possibly just our social norms that deem laughter an inappropriate expression of whatever. So that's how Owl came into my life. The practitioner advised that I sleep with it nearby and let it teach me through my dreams. So that's what I did.
Sunday: I meet up with my aunt and uncle for breakfast. It's deper than that though. This particular aunt and uncle are the "long-lost" ones. The aunt is the twin sister of my biological father, with whom I've had a total of two weeks of personal contact in my whole life. I just met my aunt, uncle, and cousin a month ago. It's cool that they live relatively close; ironic that out of the whole big ass country, I unknowingly pick to move to the spot where 85% of the biological paternal lineage has resided for decades. With my aunt and uncle are two cousins that I have met only days ago, very briefly. My aunt, my cousin Joe and I all have the exact dame smile; a smile that streches from one corner of your face to another, and just kinda lights up your heart. We eat french toast and eggs benedict, then take a lap around Green Lake. We eat ice cream (it's two degrees above freezing, mind you) then head back to the house for some lounging. My aunt and uncle go off to do some shopping, and my cousins and I take another lap around Green Lake.
It's amazing what you learn about people when you walk with them. Like the movement of their body facilitates the movement of their soul. Like a violin string being rubbed by a rosined bow, the soul begins to vibrate and sing. I really like my cousins. We reverberate.
I leave. Back home. I have been reading up on the history of health care all week for a midterm in public health. I am surprisingly more interested in this subject than I predicted. That's always exciting.
Monday. I continue to read up on health care policy, and write up my midterm. I forgo the gym today, because I'm bleeding. Instead, I call my biological father. It's only been nine years. It sounded like it, too. I could've crank called some random person and had a conversation quite similar to the one I had with Jim. It's like we both sense that we should know more about each other, and possibly even be interested in the other person's life, but it's just not there. At least, I don't feel it. And I feel a lot of things, usually without trying.
Apparently, it's a snow day, and the school is closed. Thankfully I get this message via email as I'm sendong off my midterm, and I rejoice in getting to spend an entire day in my jammies. I celebrate by watching four episodes of the L word back to back (God bless Netflix). I go to bed at 2am.
Tuesday. School. A day at school is like three days of manual labor. Something about it is neverending, and strikes a deep chord of inadequacy and humility amidst the marinated tofu and relfection pond. People still tend to have fleeting moments of fun or freedom, but it's rare: the collective consciousness of the place can feel like a cross between a prison and a mental institution. This particular day at school, I learned that I hadn't performed well enough to receive advanced standing in a certification class I had been taking for months. The teacher said multiple times, not to take it personal, and I didn't. I mean, I wasn't mad at him. I was, however, furious with myself. God, if I were my domme, my sub would be black, blue, bleeding and broken, I'm that good at being ruthless with myself. Today I guess I couldn't take it that well. But boy did I shove it. Later I'm at Liberty, chomping on sushi and negotiating a bondage-and-blood scene with a marvelously sweet sexy kinky couple. The scene was to happen that night. In retrospect, I might have acknowledged that I was already feeling a little shitty, but I thought at the time that the scene would cheer me up. I wound up pretty deep in the headspace of my youth, unquestionably the darkest years of my life to date. Themes of shame and defiance bubbled up over the emergent property of the night: inadequacy. The couple assured me they had fun, and I've no choice but to believe them. I worry about being seen. About being seen, judged, and dismissed, like "Whoa! Don't want to go there again." But I know this couple can handle deep space, I'm confident in that. But what will convince me for certain is a return office call, so to speak. And this is how time builds trust in others.
Wednesday. I don't remember much about Wednesday, other than I went to the gym and swam until I pulled my scalenes on the left side.
Thursday. Whoa. All I wanted was needles in my wrist. Instead, I got to sit through seven hours of class, three of which were nearly the most frustrating in my career.
I can't remember when the chest pains started. I'm pretty sure I woke up with them on Thursday. I'm pretty sure they started before that, but since this is a recurring theme, I didn't start paying attention to them until they had me nearly doubling over. That was on Thursday. Shock waves. That's what it felt like. Shock waves shooting straight into my heart. I was having trouble breathing, and I was so agitated. I wondered if the adrenaline of Tuesday had caught up with me and I had become a junkie of sorts looking for a decent wallop of pain to make it through another day in the fiery pit of med school. Every moment was like sitting on wiggling red hot nails. I got to my preceptor and the concerned office manager had me take my blood pressure three times consecutively. Even I was floored when I averaged 130/90, unheard of for me. The doc said I was having an anxiety attack and suggested I either pop a Xanax or drink a beer. From past experience, I know there's no use in being either righteous or snotty with this guy, so I just laughed it off. He doesn't really know me anyway, that's clear. But who really knows anyone? The best we can hope for in this life is to know ourselves. Everyone else is their business. I leave the office with a bottle of Stress X and sit in an hour of traffic on the 520 bridge.
Friday. I wake up and cringe. I don't wanna. I am exhausted and the pain in my chest had gotten worse, so the exhaustion is quickly compounded by mild panic. It crosses my mind that I have tried just about every trick I know of to get me back to good: exercise, good diet, detox tea, gingko shot...what was I missing? I go to school, into Herbal Ways and lament my circumstances to my dear friend Rob. We make a tea that helps (Rose for the heart, Vervain for the throat, Motherwort for the heart and nervine properties, Fennel because Rob said so, and Cinnamon because I said so), and I also snag some Sticta to work the grief out of my lung while I'm at it. It works for maybe an hour, then the tension is back, along with the heart pain. I float off during homeopathy class and flip to remedy that has caught my eye recently. The mental-emotional keynote is inadequacy, after all, and today I just can't seem to think of another way to tackle this predicament. I wonder if Spirit was saying, Hey, if you are so into homeopathy, let's see how far you can trust yourself with it" or something. The remedy moved a lot: it felt like my head was a toilet that finally got flushed. It was a very forlorn feeling as I meandered the halls, looking for something or someone, guidance, direction, support, help. I finally sat down in the caf, and my friend Lisa joined me. The angel that she is, her message so clear: "Be gentle with yourself" The tears responded to that, as I recognized the part of me that felt like I deserved abuse, if not from anyone else, then certainly from myself.
We decided a walk to the lake was in order. As we slopped down the muddy hill, Lisa in her stockings and Mary Janes led me into the woods, back into my soul. The remedy was working, the chest pain fading, the tolerance to cold returning. Lisa fell square on her ass, and laughed out loud, bounced up again and kept on down the hill. We got to the edge of the lake, and I turned to her and confessed that I was always subject to this insatiable urge to jump in the lake every time I was down here. And this I why I love Lisa. Her face lit up and she said "Sure! Let's go!" So this is how Lisa and I celebrated a new month (that month being February) in the PNW with temps once again hovering around freezing. We stripped off our clothes and barreled into the water, screeching the entire way. "This is why I love you," she said. And this is why I love her too.
We walked back in the dark. We decided that the woods at night merely amplifies the internal state of the observer. If you're freaking yourself out with your demons and haunts, the woods will convince you that you will never leave it alive. Conversely, one who is at ease and in a state of inner peace moves through the woods at night like it's a warm bath.
That evening, and the following day, Saturday: Cell Salts with Louise Edwards. Great class, lots of info, less heart pressure, although still seeking out a one-drop remedy. How much time is alotted for healing? Til results come barreling in? How do you know when you're done? When it's time to just wait, or time to redose?
All of these fucking questions.
I ended Saturday with lots of chocolate cake, a Guiness, a cigarette, jamming on the djembe and spanking a beautiful sweet birthday girl.
It's 2am. That is just one week.
The start of the week began, let's say on Saturday. That coincides with the beginning of my cycle. I began bleeding that morning, just in time to drum for a soul retrieval. Apparently I needed the protection. After a *long* session, lasting almost six hours, the practitioner and I were winding down, sharing stories. Then she totally blows my mind (probably hers was blown as well) when she suddenly tells me to close my eyes, that she's got a gift for me. When I open my eyes, she's offering up her Owl wing to the four directions, Mother Earth, Father, Sky and Mystery before placing it in my hands.
It's times like this that I wish I could feel deeper, that I could allow myself to feel as moved as I "should" be. I wanted to be so moved in that moment that I cried. She was definitely crying; this was a wing she had done ceremony on herself and worked closely with for over two years. Instead I laughed. In some ways, laughing is like crying, I suppose. It's possibly just our social norms that deem laughter an inappropriate expression of whatever. So that's how Owl came into my life. The practitioner advised that I sleep with it nearby and let it teach me through my dreams. So that's what I did.
Sunday: I meet up with my aunt and uncle for breakfast. It's deper than that though. This particular aunt and uncle are the "long-lost" ones. The aunt is the twin sister of my biological father, with whom I've had a total of two weeks of personal contact in my whole life. I just met my aunt, uncle, and cousin a month ago. It's cool that they live relatively close; ironic that out of the whole big ass country, I unknowingly pick to move to the spot where 85% of the biological paternal lineage has resided for decades. With my aunt and uncle are two cousins that I have met only days ago, very briefly. My aunt, my cousin Joe and I all have the exact dame smile; a smile that streches from one corner of your face to another, and just kinda lights up your heart. We eat french toast and eggs benedict, then take a lap around Green Lake. We eat ice cream (it's two degrees above freezing, mind you) then head back to the house for some lounging. My aunt and uncle go off to do some shopping, and my cousins and I take another lap around Green Lake.
It's amazing what you learn about people when you walk with them. Like the movement of their body facilitates the movement of their soul. Like a violin string being rubbed by a rosined bow, the soul begins to vibrate and sing. I really like my cousins. We reverberate.
I leave. Back home. I have been reading up on the history of health care all week for a midterm in public health. I am surprisingly more interested in this subject than I predicted. That's always exciting.
Monday. I continue to read up on health care policy, and write up my midterm. I forgo the gym today, because I'm bleeding. Instead, I call my biological father. It's only been nine years. It sounded like it, too. I could've crank called some random person and had a conversation quite similar to the one I had with Jim. It's like we both sense that we should know more about each other, and possibly even be interested in the other person's life, but it's just not there. At least, I don't feel it. And I feel a lot of things, usually without trying.
Apparently, it's a snow day, and the school is closed. Thankfully I get this message via email as I'm sendong off my midterm, and I rejoice in getting to spend an entire day in my jammies. I celebrate by watching four episodes of the L word back to back (God bless Netflix). I go to bed at 2am.
Tuesday. School. A day at school is like three days of manual labor. Something about it is neverending, and strikes a deep chord of inadequacy and humility amidst the marinated tofu and relfection pond. People still tend to have fleeting moments of fun or freedom, but it's rare: the collective consciousness of the place can feel like a cross between a prison and a mental institution. This particular day at school, I learned that I hadn't performed well enough to receive advanced standing in a certification class I had been taking for months. The teacher said multiple times, not to take it personal, and I didn't. I mean, I wasn't mad at him. I was, however, furious with myself. God, if I were my domme, my sub would be black, blue, bleeding and broken, I'm that good at being ruthless with myself. Today I guess I couldn't take it that well. But boy did I shove it. Later I'm at Liberty, chomping on sushi and negotiating a bondage-and-blood scene with a marvelously sweet sexy kinky couple. The scene was to happen that night. In retrospect, I might have acknowledged that I was already feeling a little shitty, but I thought at the time that the scene would cheer me up. I wound up pretty deep in the headspace of my youth, unquestionably the darkest years of my life to date. Themes of shame and defiance bubbled up over the emergent property of the night: inadequacy. The couple assured me they had fun, and I've no choice but to believe them. I worry about being seen. About being seen, judged, and dismissed, like "Whoa! Don't want to go there again." But I know this couple can handle deep space, I'm confident in that. But what will convince me for certain is a return office call, so to speak. And this is how time builds trust in others.
Wednesday. I don't remember much about Wednesday, other than I went to the gym and swam until I pulled my scalenes on the left side.
Thursday. Whoa. All I wanted was needles in my wrist. Instead, I got to sit through seven hours of class, three of which were nearly the most frustrating in my career.
I can't remember when the chest pains started. I'm pretty sure I woke up with them on Thursday. I'm pretty sure they started before that, but since this is a recurring theme, I didn't start paying attention to them until they had me nearly doubling over. That was on Thursday. Shock waves. That's what it felt like. Shock waves shooting straight into my heart. I was having trouble breathing, and I was so agitated. I wondered if the adrenaline of Tuesday had caught up with me and I had become a junkie of sorts looking for a decent wallop of pain to make it through another day in the fiery pit of med school. Every moment was like sitting on wiggling red hot nails. I got to my preceptor and the concerned office manager had me take my blood pressure three times consecutively. Even I was floored when I averaged 130/90, unheard of for me. The doc said I was having an anxiety attack and suggested I either pop a Xanax or drink a beer. From past experience, I know there's no use in being either righteous or snotty with this guy, so I just laughed it off. He doesn't really know me anyway, that's clear. But who really knows anyone? The best we can hope for in this life is to know ourselves. Everyone else is their business. I leave the office with a bottle of Stress X and sit in an hour of traffic on the 520 bridge.
Friday. I wake up and cringe. I don't wanna. I am exhausted and the pain in my chest had gotten worse, so the exhaustion is quickly compounded by mild panic. It crosses my mind that I have tried just about every trick I know of to get me back to good: exercise, good diet, detox tea, gingko shot...what was I missing? I go to school, into Herbal Ways and lament my circumstances to my dear friend Rob. We make a tea that helps (Rose for the heart, Vervain for the throat, Motherwort for the heart and nervine properties, Fennel because Rob said so, and Cinnamon because I said so), and I also snag some Sticta to work the grief out of my lung while I'm at it. It works for maybe an hour, then the tension is back, along with the heart pain. I float off during homeopathy class and flip to remedy that has caught my eye recently. The mental-emotional keynote is inadequacy, after all, and today I just can't seem to think of another way to tackle this predicament. I wonder if Spirit was saying, Hey, if you are so into homeopathy, let's see how far you can trust yourself with it" or something. The remedy moved a lot: it felt like my head was a toilet that finally got flushed. It was a very forlorn feeling as I meandered the halls, looking for something or someone, guidance, direction, support, help. I finally sat down in the caf, and my friend Lisa joined me. The angel that she is, her message so clear: "Be gentle with yourself" The tears responded to that, as I recognized the part of me that felt like I deserved abuse, if not from anyone else, then certainly from myself.
We decided a walk to the lake was in order. As we slopped down the muddy hill, Lisa in her stockings and Mary Janes led me into the woods, back into my soul. The remedy was working, the chest pain fading, the tolerance to cold returning. Lisa fell square on her ass, and laughed out loud, bounced up again and kept on down the hill. We got to the edge of the lake, and I turned to her and confessed that I was always subject to this insatiable urge to jump in the lake every time I was down here. And this I why I love Lisa. Her face lit up and she said "Sure! Let's go!" So this is how Lisa and I celebrated a new month (that month being February) in the PNW with temps once again hovering around freezing. We stripped off our clothes and barreled into the water, screeching the entire way. "This is why I love you," she said. And this is why I love her too.
We walked back in the dark. We decided that the woods at night merely amplifies the internal state of the observer. If you're freaking yourself out with your demons and haunts, the woods will convince you that you will never leave it alive. Conversely, one who is at ease and in a state of inner peace moves through the woods at night like it's a warm bath.
That evening, and the following day, Saturday: Cell Salts with Louise Edwards. Great class, lots of info, less heart pressure, although still seeking out a one-drop remedy. How much time is alotted for healing? Til results come barreling in? How do you know when you're done? When it's time to just wait, or time to redose?
All of these fucking questions.
I ended Saturday with lots of chocolate cake, a Guiness, a cigarette, jamming on the djembe and spanking a beautiful sweet birthday girl.
It's 2am. That is just one week.
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