luncheon talks.

The lunch talk was politics, religion, and other fancified bull shit that plagues this world's toxic tongue-things that back in the day would have made me squirm with discomfort, making me feel as though I had to pipe up and step up to bat, contributing something I may or may have agreed with, just to fulfill some unwritten, unspoken contract that we all tend to hang over our own heads for 'showing up' to this one.

Blah blah blah. 

But today was different. Call it maturity, not giving a fuck, or what have you, but today I chose to walk straight up out of this conversation. I sat there in silence for the moments leading up to my lofty escape for as long as I could bare, staring annoyingly at the few hairs I missed whilst shaving my legs earlier in the AM; I stared in silence until I could no longer find an article on the under-sole of my shoe that held my zombie-d out brain vibrations. Then, I fled.

Surely there were contorted face exchanges, droppy and rolling eye balls in the ugliest of deformaties going around the room, pst pst's about how dare the new girl, contract worker at that, leave our "visual-department-at-Bonton-Corporate-Milwaukee-Wisconsin-fascinating-luncheon-conversation, walk out at such a rare event.

 Gag me. 

Ciao kittens. This, friends, is the art of peacing the fuck out.

While plugged back in at my cube to sound vibrations ping ponging around in my various chakras, in desperate attempts to fix whatever brain cells I just lost in this last thirty minutes of agony, I felt a presence behind me, one that I prayed wasn't the guilty 'shoulder tappist' of the cube farm, for today, I would have punched her in the face, with her own fist-lo and behold, it t'was my boss. A lovely little nugget of a woman, 1,289,374,983,274 months pregnant, ready to explode a new human thing into the medium of this universe. I look up as she taps my shoulder-what is with people and shoulders-fuck. "Sorry if that got a bit deep," she says. An entertained smirk intoxicates my face. "No way! It's just that i had nothing to add to the conversation. Call it me getting older or whatever, frankly, I just don't feel like I always have to say something," I said. "That's one of the qualities I like most about you. There's a time to b a potter and a time to be a pot, my dad says, you're being the pot, a sponge," she said.

In walks a third party. This happened to be the girl in the luncheon that replied "...that is why I say nature is my religion," when talks of religion landed its naked body on the table. Our conversation, clothed in imported burlap coffee sacks, world maps and flowers adorning my small environment, arrived on an island called Grenada, a place I never knew existed on planet earth. The closest knowledge I had was of Granada, Spain... Tales of machetes, jungle boys and dogs called "tall boy." These, are the conversations worth adding any of the cents I have toward. The things that should be on the minds and tongues of people, things that actually have substance, challenging the mind, opening the heart and soul to the 196 countries that we could be talking about; real conversations, ones that stimulate the tips of the tongue, and all of the senses alike. Ones we can actually get somewhere with, and somewhere positive at that. No, I am not saying that it is taboo to speak on the aforementioned topics. I am saying that if we spent half the amount of time we do talking of bullshit, defending our opinions and casting judgement onto literally everything we possibly choose to get offended over, maybe this world wouldn't be so fucked up. Lets use are brains for things that are constructive, positive, game changers.

Just a thought...

Rewinding to the climactic precipice in my decision making process of exiting the conversation, the thought demons polluted my brain space, thoughts of " I'm going to piss someone off-cue guilt- maybe I'm being immature, and I'm the one with the problem, not able to man up and speak of these loaded topics...." The ego can be a real tricky dick...and I started to believe it, feeling the spiral begin in the first moments of sitting back at my desk.

Little did I know that by following my gut and following through with what my entire body was telling me to do, I would have established not only a whole new understanding and connection with two humans I could have otherwise continued a separate yet office co-existence, but I was able to trust myself and fly. I was able to spark new connections to neurological steams that will continue to bring forth the real me, the me that will have no problem peacing the fuck out when things don't resonate with my soul.

lone soul.

What is it that we seek to explore?

Most often, nothing.

What questions don't we ask one another?

Ourselves?

Inquire.

What will we find?

 

You find.

"You're a good listener."

Aren't we all  in search for just this?

But do we return what it is we seek?

L e t i t s t e w.  

What will we find?  If I asked you what it is you sit with when you are alone, will you know? Will you be able to discern through the madness, the whipping thoughts, emotions, photos, memories, the words, the feelings without crying, without overwhelm, without veering off on a path you may have let go? Did someone tell you "it is what it is?"

But do you believe them?

Are there things you seek to explore but have the heart to look back on? Or forward to?

We hear but we don't l i s t e n.

We listen and think we h e a r.

When our thorns are disrupted, the ones that dig deeply into our unsifted wounds, we retreat. We hide like a soldier in the dugouts, deep within the shrappings of our dungeon we've crafted through lifetimes, the angles, the lighting, the smells and sounds strategically measured and placed into an equation for safety. An equation that will never be fool proof.

 Because life h a p p e n s.

And when those thorns fire up when we seek to listen, we run. We run and we run, faster into the night, faster in time, finding shortcuts to bury the wounds, treasures sinking to the ocean floor, ricocheting off the cliffs and stones, the mountains of our experience.

"It will be what it will be, because life has taught me so." To let go, to cease rumination, to chalk it up to "something of the past," ashes floating on twirling breeze.

What if I asked you if it was an opportunity? What if I told you that it didn't have to be what deemed, is. That to explore is to live this authentic left of self, to replay the scene, flashing forward and backward, quill in hand writing the pages of the story, each day unfolding. That all things will change through required self inventory.

That there is not what is but what has happened,  Not a missed opportunity or a clandestine moment, but a loop hole in the story. A story of your life, one handcrafted for yours truly, requiring you to show up. Requiring your active participation in the crossing of the T's and the dotting of the I's, because without your presence, it will be left unfinished. Untilled.

What if it's not scary? What if it's just lonely, yearning for affection, tender love, an embrace of understanding, truth, belonging?

A c c e p t a n c e.

What if it,  just wants to be h e a r d ?

things overheard.

woman:


"it's that thing, where the smart people live, and the dumb people die."


me:


"survival of the fittest."


woman:


"yeah, natural collection."


me:


....thinks to self. you just died.

perspective.

I have this theory that your eyes are the gateway into your soul. We've all heard this through the vines before. however, mine goes a bit deeper, as I venture to say that each and every "thing" we take in through our eyes shapes our being, our soul.


I tend to be told of my stunning eyes. I respond humbly, "it's because of the vast amounts of ocean, nature and sky I drink in."


I hold strong to this. The things I've seen, the magic I've helped to create, that I've witnessed, it's strung along in dangling white lights, thinking through the drapes of mine soul, shedding love and light onto those that have a sip from my fountain.


Soul foods fed, through living, experiences, beauty seen, love shared, moments had, grace, positivity and encompassing your world in the mindfulness of acquiring such surroundings, makes up the foundation of your-self. therefore, leaving you in overflow, fulfilled or lacking nature of the aforementioned extensions.


I choose to create a life that is centered around wholeness. through self awareness, truth, light, love. through creation. in sending out the vibrations and the outlines of what I seek to find in this world. what my soul desires as its true path to a conscious, fulfilled and contently divine existence.


So when my eyes twinkle in your gaze, it's proof I have loved. It is proof I have felt, in pain or compassion, I've felt the rawness of this life that knows no boundaries of consistency, for nothing in this life is static or in promise of its continued existence within the grasp of our existential breath. the proof that I have flowed. that life has scooped me up, ever so gently, by the strings of my being, chaperoning me as I ride the waves, ripple by ripple, each one having its diving place in the orchestration of some bigger picture unforetold to mankind. the universe. The single verse that is sung, by you, and I, the shared craft from source to sea.


So when you ask me what it is that makes mine eyes twinkle in the glow of this life, I will paint you a picture of the journey I've shared, from external to internal, that shapes my glare. for I see things now that have upset my current, and brushed my tides out of sync, leaving me abreast in the pixilated reality of what is before me. the lights are dimming as the gates slowly retreat, from the things once held in sight, feel vacant, vast. leaving. the things I have seen, they're still there, in the outskirts, where wanderlust passes startling sensitivity, joining her for mid arvo tea. where things are beautiful, possible. unique.


The moment will come where the music dances off my ears, where each flower sways me so deeply into the night. again. but for now, the lights have dimmed, the music dying softly, it trickles to the ocean floor, where twinkles have no face, no float, no foe.


Contorted in furrowing brows, eyes smeared in contrasting pantones, the discourse you see is what I see. through these, one, twinkling, eyes.

Things Unheard.

I’m sure you, like me, posed the “ would you rather be deaf or blind” scenario as a little kid, each of you engrossed in a mere seconds thought, weighing the pros and cons of walking a few miles in one versus the other , eventually coming to a definitive conclusion: deaf, or blind. My memory of this is different. Wavering back and forth, blind or deaf, plaguing me as I would verbalize my list of whys: to be blind meant no longer seeing horses, the sea, flowers, Mom, Dad, and  deaf on the other hand, meant wind would be void of sound, there would be no music, laughter, crunching leaves, familiar laughs. Vividly, I can recall a routine opting out of responding, or voting in favor to “none of the above”-safest to play by my own rules under these circumstances. To think that this scenario is to some degree, in our hands, is naive to say the least. Why? Because life happens.

Four days ago I was ‘diagnosed’ with sudden loss of auditory senses, literally deaf in my right ear. I woke to my right ear underwater, confused, but rooted in a state of  calmness. As the days passed, it only got worse. Trains whipping by, screeching whistles, television channels straining to tune, droning hum. Fear trickled into my presence; something wasn’t right. After a series of sound tests in a telephone booth gone pilot arrangement, the doc discloses “you’ve lost 80% hearing in your right eat.” Cue tears. I am 27 and legally deaf.

Swimming my way about these last days have been a mysterious blessing, frankly, guiding me through acquiring more commentary than the average person on the standard ear plug than I would ever have expected to gain. “I became deaf at the age of twelve,” said Phil, as we connected over mutual deafness at the market Saturday morning. He shared his plight of becoming deaf, showcasing his hearing aid, leaving me in high regards of his hearing contraption, “if I am on the market for one myself.”  Witnessing friends adapting their efforts, candidly,  to situate themselves on my “good side,” all the while being cognizant of noise levels in whatever environment we found ourselves  for their ninety-year old, ear plugged, Morghan. I have connected and had conversations with people never pondered, “my father has a hearing aid but prefers to keep it out-it’s too overstimulating to him to have it in now,”  bathed in stories of beloveds alike, opening my eyes to functioning in reality of this handicap.

I feel blessed.

Leaving my right brains in a constant state of meditation , my left, blundering through the world, overstimulated and shocked by all experienced in one day,  in one moment. I’ve been forced to go inside, a 24 hour mediation if you will, navigating the inner trappings of my existence. Here I have found peace, contentment, silence, love. It is if I have arrived home, tossing my shoes off, and kicking back into the billowing fluff, that adorn this space. I find myself opting to plug up my other ear, yearning for solitude within my own being, whilst functioning in this life.

After ten days logged with 80% hearing loss, she came knocking at my door, graciously, I let her in. Sensitive, delayed, static, gray, muddled, weak. The light has shone at the end of this tunnel. The fear and confusion that gripped so tightly washed away like ocean waves tickling the shore line, it seems paradoxical that delight wouldn’t be the overshadowing emotion. An intruder, stealing me out of my meditation, these sounds foreign languages to my new land.

Blind or deaf? I choose none of the above. I’ve walked a few miles in the latter shoe, gaining a peace and experience I had no control over, never welcomed either. I have emerged in wake of heightened understanding, compassion, and love. I have walked a few miles in this shoe, but it’s sole is worn, tattered.


 It’s job here is done.