If you cannot see that this election is, in no way, shape or form actually about politics and parties, you're missing the point. It comes down to humans-morals, values, LIFE, and chastising 'such' deemed humans for being born into their skin. To say that we come from "The Land of the Free," is a bunch of poppy cock. Maybe one day this statement was true, and people could believe it; perhaps, forever only to an extent because everyone's definition of freedom looks a bit different. Freedom to be judged if not fitting into the cookie cutter fear laden square that is approved as American. We've recrafted this slogan to look a little more like 'the land of the free to criticize, to wave our chauvenistic flags at main-mast, vehemently in the faces in everyone and everyone that either challenge our beliefs-bring fear to the forefront of our life experience.'
Trump- let's just spare this page of all the things we all already know. I don't want to get carpultunnels typing such nonsense. Simply put-the Trumpster is, the antipode of love, kindness, and progressiveness. Therefore, appealing to a specific type of human whose either a. motivated by fear and aggression; violence, or b. the type of human who is looking to hear everything they want to hear-that America will be restored to "The Land of the Free; the Great," and that jobs will be pulled from the clouds. Both, flawlessly promising. Insert eye roll here.
As you can gather from his past, the political side of things has little but no worth as to where he sits- being a swing state himself- furthermore, proving his intrinsic desire to have power; shocking.
This is where things get even more mind-fucky- his wife, a Slovenian immigrant (ironic) has made it clear that her goals as first lady will be to stand up for women's rights- essentially, being the number one advocate against her own husband's teachings of the American populace, as to how to chiefly degrade women and everyone else that is not a white, straight, American male. Interesting. the whole world how to chiefly violate women. Great team work, guys. In her latest interview with CNN, she preached about her goal-to stand up for women, about how she wanted to ensure that every single child will feel loved and cared for. That kindness and compassion, freedom, understanding and cooperation are of her utmost concern and focus as First Lady. She went as far as to say that it is unacceptable that kids are being mocked, bullied and otherwise on the playground. That we need to find a new way to communicate and respect each other. Maybe she will be the one to knock down the wall Trump builds on the US and Mexican border. What the actual fuck.
The parallel here is that the playground is the world and all the kids-all the humans- are, in fact, being bullied, mocked and incriminated for being who they are. This is an attack on identity. This has nothing to do with politics. What challenges and 'doesnt look like' the pre-approved norm of white, straight man. 't's not just an issue for all of us that can comprehend what is going on; it's much deeper than that. It's a trickle effect that is hurting the souls and identities of children who are slowly grasping what is happening-the new obstacles that have been thrown into their already difficult path. But let's remember to be free and love one another in the midst of being victim to bigotry and sexism. And yet, it's interesting that they, as a team, understand that you cannot fight hatred with hatred. Frankly, they're playing their cards right and each playing into a different part of the psyche- playing into both the moral and the immoral folk. Therefore, everyone will be forced to see the silver lining in some part of the Trump team, ultimately winning power over any and all folks.
One who has never been interested in the political landscape in the slightest, I now find myself at a benchmark in my own exploration thereof. Realizing that lack of participation is just as ineffective as being uninformed. That now, it is ever more important to be in the thick of all that is transpiring, as to gain understanding, awareness and effectively construct a new paradigm- one that is built off of this spoken love, understanding and compassion. It is everyone's due diligence to get on board and start chipping away at the change that which we need to see. That to have freedom, by definition, means being free from power or control over another, we need to cease fear, hatred and violence and allow for every human to be that which that desire. And maybe that is where this new story can begin.
Thursday, November 10, 2016
Sunday, September 18, 2016
advice about advice
At what point do we draw a line in giving advice as well as taking advice?
At what point do we recognize that it is just our ego speaking and that we are trying to "control" in some outlandish way either the situation or the event even though it is not our situation, our path or experience to control?
At what point do we recognize the other's need to just speak. To be heard. To air their shit out. What will it take for us to see that that's simply all they need? To not have to 'be right' or to cling on so tightly to 'how the situation once was or looked.' The need to judge something so fiercely, where does that stem from? And what purpose does that serve us when trying to help someone?
Yes, we have all been there before, waiting to tell the person the right way to do things, because, "we know." I had the most humbling experience about a week ago when talking to a good friend. We were speaking to relationships and simply catching one another up on our lives. When it came to the point for him to dish out some gold plated advice, he did not. Instead, his response shocked me. He said "I do not feel comfortable telling you what you should and shouldn't do, laying down some advice when I don't know anything about your situation or the dynamic there within. All I can say is continue being supportive and loving." That, threw me through a loop. It really made me question why we don't all approach situations in the same regard.
I've been taking a bird's eye view of how I go about speaking to people in this same light. Where I either push my advice upon the other, or where my judgements come out to bite. It's not a conscious or manipulative act, by which any of us are functioning from. It's simply an innocent 'we know no other way to go about it,' taking place. This is how we have been raised. Someone tells us something and we respond with how we would maneuver the situation or insert our own experience into and onto it almost in a 'choose this way or walk shamefully into a temple of flames and mosquitos,' not realizing for one moment we just did that. We want to be of service but the moment our way isn't chosen then out comes the ego to attack and fight for our rights. How does that even make sense? Riddle me this.
I have been spun upside down and around on this topic as of late, really paying attention to how people react in this realm. It's kinda creepy in a way. Ok, look at me, I'm being judgmental. Let's try again. It's alarming. Fuck it. It's weird. All that I'm bringing to the table is to shed some awareness onto the situation. One specific situation that I think most people can relate to is being clobbered in the face by vehement word vomit as to 'well, you said it was x way last week and now it changed. How dare you do that. How dare this happen. And you ask me for advice, and now you don't want to talk about it?' How do we take things so personally when it isn't about us at all. If someone wants to open up one day and then the next day, the realize how they can go about it alone (or at least wanting to try because they see how mucked up the waters can get when you ask a bazillion human beings for 'their advice) how are you going to be that much of an egotistical bastard to berate someone like that? Weren't they coming to you out of a place of vulnerability, seeking help and love, and then, ironically, you come back at them and use it all against them?
It just blows my mind in the ways that we are unconscious. Again, yes, it is innocent. I'm not here to sit on some God-like throne and threw spoiled grapes at your faces. Not even close to it. I'm here to grab you by the nape of the neck, as I do myself, a billion times a day, and show you a bigger picture, again, one that I force myself to see no matter how painful and no matter how much I just want to be a dick or be right, in that moment, or for that day. Yeah, it sucks. And some days I wish I could just be a scum of the Earth because shit, it's way fucking easier that way. Alas, I try to keep the feral that lies within from creepin up into my personal experience tied down, ball and chain style. Do I always win? Nope. It's a process. You just have to keep showing up and separate your ego from the game.
This is all I am saying. That just because we are asked doesn't mean we have to be attached to our response, or their outcome. Just because someone speaks up doesn't mean they want anything from us. We need to keep ourselves humble enough to listen and present enough to let our intuition feel out what it is what is needed in that moment. And if we are going to cling to 'said response' or 'said outcome' we need to see that we are doing a disservice to ourselves at the person at hand because we should be elated that things are changing for the better and aren't staying in a place of stagnancy. Everything is only temporary. We need to digest that and fully understand that. So when we do seek to give this advice, perhaps it will be obsolete within five minutes like every single iPhone ever created. We need to accept that. And we need to let it go.
We need to realize that we can rewrite our own learns, that, it doesn't have to be so black and white. That it can be grey and we can create that grey space for there to be nothingness inside of it. That it can just be the airing out of another's experience. That it can be grey in that advice offered may or may not be taken. That it may change in one hour, two days, and we need to be OK with that because it isn't our experience to control.
And so, the time needs to come when we need to draw a line for the sake of ourselves and the sake of others to see that, advice shouldn't be laden with self-righteous judgements, nor should it be taken personally. This place, where one comes to the aid of another, should be a place of safety, where vulnerability can come to play darts and see what sticks, what doesn't and perhaps, just shoot the shit out of the board. Because, just maybe that's all it needed.
Take a step back next time and listen. Be guided by your intuition and not your ego centric mind that wants to be in control and solve all of the things. Because guess what, we know nothing. Vwahlah.
At what point do we recognize that it is just our ego speaking and that we are trying to "control" in some outlandish way either the situation or the event even though it is not our situation, our path or experience to control?
At what point do we recognize the other's need to just speak. To be heard. To air their shit out. What will it take for us to see that that's simply all they need? To not have to 'be right' or to cling on so tightly to 'how the situation once was or looked.' The need to judge something so fiercely, where does that stem from? And what purpose does that serve us when trying to help someone?
Yes, we have all been there before, waiting to tell the person the right way to do things, because, "we know." I had the most humbling experience about a week ago when talking to a good friend. We were speaking to relationships and simply catching one another up on our lives. When it came to the point for him to dish out some gold plated advice, he did not. Instead, his response shocked me. He said "I do not feel comfortable telling you what you should and shouldn't do, laying down some advice when I don't know anything about your situation or the dynamic there within. All I can say is continue being supportive and loving." That, threw me through a loop. It really made me question why we don't all approach situations in the same regard.
I've been taking a bird's eye view of how I go about speaking to people in this same light. Where I either push my advice upon the other, or where my judgements come out to bite. It's not a conscious or manipulative act, by which any of us are functioning from. It's simply an innocent 'we know no other way to go about it,' taking place. This is how we have been raised. Someone tells us something and we respond with how we would maneuver the situation or insert our own experience into and onto it almost in a 'choose this way or walk shamefully into a temple of flames and mosquitos,' not realizing for one moment we just did that. We want to be of service but the moment our way isn't chosen then out comes the ego to attack and fight for our rights. How does that even make sense? Riddle me this.
I have been spun upside down and around on this topic as of late, really paying attention to how people react in this realm. It's kinda creepy in a way. Ok, look at me, I'm being judgmental. Let's try again. It's alarming. Fuck it. It's weird. All that I'm bringing to the table is to shed some awareness onto the situation. One specific situation that I think most people can relate to is being clobbered in the face by vehement word vomit as to 'well, you said it was x way last week and now it changed. How dare you do that. How dare this happen. And you ask me for advice, and now you don't want to talk about it?' How do we take things so personally when it isn't about us at all. If someone wants to open up one day and then the next day, the realize how they can go about it alone (or at least wanting to try because they see how mucked up the waters can get when you ask a bazillion human beings for 'their advice) how are you going to be that much of an egotistical bastard to berate someone like that? Weren't they coming to you out of a place of vulnerability, seeking help and love, and then, ironically, you come back at them and use it all against them?
It just blows my mind in the ways that we are unconscious. Again, yes, it is innocent. I'm not here to sit on some God-like throne and threw spoiled grapes at your faces. Not even close to it. I'm here to grab you by the nape of the neck, as I do myself, a billion times a day, and show you a bigger picture, again, one that I force myself to see no matter how painful and no matter how much I just want to be a dick or be right, in that moment, or for that day. Yeah, it sucks. And some days I wish I could just be a scum of the Earth because shit, it's way fucking easier that way. Alas, I try to keep the feral that lies within from creepin up into my personal experience tied down, ball and chain style. Do I always win? Nope. It's a process. You just have to keep showing up and separate your ego from the game.
This is all I am saying. That just because we are asked doesn't mean we have to be attached to our response, or their outcome. Just because someone speaks up doesn't mean they want anything from us. We need to keep ourselves humble enough to listen and present enough to let our intuition feel out what it is what is needed in that moment. And if we are going to cling to 'said response' or 'said outcome' we need to see that we are doing a disservice to ourselves at the person at hand because we should be elated that things are changing for the better and aren't staying in a place of stagnancy. Everything is only temporary. We need to digest that and fully understand that. So when we do seek to give this advice, perhaps it will be obsolete within five minutes like every single iPhone ever created. We need to accept that. And we need to let it go.
We need to realize that we can rewrite our own learns, that, it doesn't have to be so black and white. That it can be grey and we can create that grey space for there to be nothingness inside of it. That it can just be the airing out of another's experience. That it can be grey in that advice offered may or may not be taken. That it may change in one hour, two days, and we need to be OK with that because it isn't our experience to control.
And so, the time needs to come when we need to draw a line for the sake of ourselves and the sake of others to see that, advice shouldn't be laden with self-righteous judgements, nor should it be taken personally. This place, where one comes to the aid of another, should be a place of safety, where vulnerability can come to play darts and see what sticks, what doesn't and perhaps, just shoot the shit out of the board. Because, just maybe that's all it needed.
Take a step back next time and listen. Be guided by your intuition and not your ego centric mind that wants to be in control and solve all of the things. Because guess what, we know nothing. Vwahlah.
Thursday, September 15, 2016
no sir, I will not surf your couch
There was this one time I thought it was a good idea to try Couch Surfing...in Chile...alone...surfing the couch of some old random man.
Most people's bad ideas stop there.
Mine, have follow through. Through adventure(s) and consequence(s), only to arrive at the same conclusion, that most people begin with-that it's a bad idea and they should be stopped there- frankly, it takes my feathers to be ruffled by life a bit to enable me to circle right back around to see that that idea was indeed, shit.
Shall we begin?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chile. Day Numero Dos.
After getting kicked out of Brazil, I was unstoppable. I could do anything. Right? Wrong. There's something in me that just has to get my hands and feet dirty, my knees scraped up, loose a few bucks, have a run in with an official, fight a ferrile dog...you get the picture. This "trying it my own way," ensures to me that "said outcome," is "said outcome" that all other folks have been telling me.
*See most other people's ideas stop there.
I'm just what you'd call a hands on kinda gal.
Anytime I start out on a traveling feat, I have fears just like anyone else. I want to wet my pants, I feel as though I've forgotten everything, like I may say the wrong thing and get kicked out of the country (oh wait, that's already happened), or perhaps, that I'll be taken (if one more person tells me that whilst traveling, watch out, I will "take" you, Liam Neeson and all). I digress. It takes me a hot second to warm up to what I'm actually getting myself into, and luckily, I never quite know because I don't let myself. To have everything mapped out from start to finish takes away the adventures that lie inside the adventure itself. There is magic that can only occur between the spaces that are left open for things to be created. And by that, my spontaneity provides a veil of cloudy mystery that keeps me out of the dark alleyways of my mind, allowing me to move forward in all of my party plans, and to not get caught up in the what ifs (this is different than naivety).
Morning numero dos in hostel: I was in contact with amigas of amigas as I was planning to adventure my way to Valpariso, the sea side town notorious for it's colorful rooftops and graffiti filled everythingness. My heart sang. My brain, on the other hand, walked me through one billion and one peculiar reasons as to why I shouldn't pack up my tuna salad and bus hop that afternoon into a mystical fairyland of unicorns, and strangers, an adventure promising of a color coma. The only "valid" reason that ensued was that it was after 1 PM and my early birdedness chirped that it was far too late to accomplish any adventures that day, because evidently, adventures retire thereafter. See *fear by *paralysis, and *thatisbullshit. I told you I was still semi-human. My comfort zone was being a real pain in the ass that day, death grip onto the foothold of safety it had latched upon in Santiago, like tick to my dog's head after a crispy forest hike- just not cool. Unfortunately, this one wouldn't die from lighting a torch to it's ass.
With eager conviction after all the self induced hype, I kicked my own ass up out the hostel, and B-lined for the bus station, tuna salad in tote. I arrived only to be sandwiched between the shoddiest trouble makers in the entire cue, such is the story. Fortuitously, the man standing in line behind me just so happened to be the Chilean version of Shack. Boom. I was safe. Regardless, alborotadores uno y dos probably should have been fearing me more than what I had to fear coming out of them. I reckon they were just a bit loco. I, on the other hand, see *taken and *Ihaveablackbeltineverything. No, really.
I snake through the man made human swamp of a cue and purchase my ticket, searching for the magic school bus that was to sling shot me straight into my wildest Harry Potter dreams. Found it. I settle in, stretching my long, lanky legs (I'm 5'6" with a complex) over the adjoining two seats, and happily crack open my home made tuna fish mash, prepared hours before departure, successfully stinking up every corner of the bus while loosing my fork down the aisle in my eager excitement to feast. As I'm about to take my first bite, fingers knuckles deep in smelly tuna mush, sir blonde hair blue eyes is standing over me. "I guess he wants one of these seats," I think to myself. "I'm the window seat," he says. Nailed it. I say "Hola, si."I'm not sure if I was more pissed out that I had to stop eating, that I had to wipe my fingers on the seat and get caught in the act, or if it was that I was going to be squishing myself into one seat when I just had all three. Probably that.
I move out of his rented seat and sprawl about out in my confined territory. Talk about a bird in a cage. I guess the whole "hola, si," thing made me sound as though I was proper Chilean. This I knew because he proceeded to speak to me in some broken down Spanish that I patched together to mean "are you Latin." His effort was definitely an A plus. I thought I would let him struggle a few seconds longer, because yes, sometimes it is a bit entertaining (a lot) to watch the struggle, in the most endearing sense, waxing and waning through the difficulties. I've been in his shoes one too many times so it was my turn to get a little chuckle out of it. I started to feel bad about myself as a person as I let him conduct his struggle bus right into my "I'm American," comment. Clearly, I had no feelings and was emotionless. Thankfully, he laughed. Turned red. Probably would have liked to say something colorful to me or punch me in the face. Luck would have it that, because he was Canadian, he just wanted to be my ally. I don't know if Canadians are happier to be Canadian or people who come into contact with them are happier because they have an instantaneous friend. This, I'm unsure of. Further experiments need to be conducted. Please check back later.
We arrive to Valparaiso, happily chit chattering into the depths our or new (obvious) friendship. When we were getting off the bus, we encountered that awkward moment...like, do I ask him to hang out or does he ask me- since we are literally at the same destination, planning to explore the same amalgam of culture and art, not to mention, the few token English speakers in the place, we may as well continue onward...kind of moments. I'm sure you've all experienced them.
Flashback.
Earlier that day, I reached out to a few friends of friends to try and see if I could sort staying the night in this new land of colors and seashore, I mean, why wouldn't you? I successfully organized a place to stay and an adventure that would load the next day, cupcakes, dinosaurs and all. One hour later, plans cancelled and I have no place to stay. What came to mind was my desire to utilize couch surfing, something I had signed up for years prior, but never experienced in its full derelict potential (except for that one time in Philadelphia with Carly, at that Bong House- we will save that for another time). Tonight was the night. I logged on, sent a handful of messages to the humans who looked somewhat sane, remember, taken is a thing. Finally, I get into cahoots with sir oldmansalot. He tells me I can stay, writes me out step by step directions to his crib, and sends me his digits. I was set.
Fast Forward.
Canadian blue eye blonde hair and I spend the day exploring and scaling the sides of Valparaiso. No one tells you it's literally like trekking up the side of a the Empire State Building, without legs and arms- difficult - just way gnarlier. We take a shot of espresso for good luck, and extra pep as we set out for the voyage. It's funny the topics that are dabbled into when doing random things with strangers met hours prior. I come to find he is scored it big in the Guiness Book of World Records for eating the longest hot dog. Just kidding. He played Fifa for some bogus amount of hours without sleeping or eating. Or maybe not sleeping and eating the longest hot dog. I cannot remember the specs. Not important. After drooling over never ending graffiti, splattered over every street, stair, dog, pole, house, and child, the day came to an end as the sunset upon us as we dined on some sushi, washing it down with warm saki. He said we should head back to the bus as the last one was to leave in about forty minutes. As I typically do, I don't always tell my full plan, instead, I go with the flow and buy myself time as I sort thought what the fuck am I actually doing in my own head, while on the outside looking composed and gung-ho for 'said' plan. If only that were the case. We arrive at the bus station. I drop it on him. "I'm actually going to be taking a taxi up the coast to surf the couch of some old man I have never met before." He gives me the Dad stare and goes on to give me a lecture, basically pushing me forth to the bus. I don't know if it's the adventure or the unknowns that allure me, but dang nabbit, I found myself bidding him farewell and jumping onto the colectivo holding about four thousand more humans that it should have been.
I ride into the setting sun, kind of freaking out as to what the fuck I'm actually doing. Now that the sun is setting, I wasn't feeling oh so confident about this decision to face the night and a strange man...not to mention, I didn't have GPS, the best Chilean Spanish under my belt, or a pistol...The colectivo squeaks and turns and rattles along the seaside, it's beautiful. After about twenty minutes I feel like something just isn't right as we had passed signs of Vina Del Mar, the town I thought I was to stop at. I look over to man next to me and mumble 'where are we' and 'how close is that to Vina?' "Basically," says dude, "you should have gotten off ages ago and now you're going to be getting off in a very dangerous area. Wait five more minutes and you'll still be getting off in the middle of nowhere, but maybe your life will be less endangered." It's black as midnight might I add.
I hop off the colectivo and walk into the nearest petrol station to wee, get some water, gather my thoughts, my life, and try to figure out what the hell to do next. I head back outside and stand at the bus stop just figuring that I should be able to call old strange man and he will walk me through the directions. There is a strange man at the bus stop that keeps looking at me. Naturally, I think he's going to kill me. He walks over. Naturally, he doesn't kill me. He chats with me and asks where I'm headed. I tell him Vina. He tells me that I've overshot it by at least twenty minutes. No shit Sherlock. He offers for me to stay at his place but quickly follows up with no sorry I mean you're a young lady and that's not right. I WOULD offer you my place but if someone were to do this to my daughter, that wouldn't be right either. He asks where I'm staying. I tell him a friends house. Push comes to shove as I'm not able to reach this 'friend' on his mobile. Then more truths come out, that I'm actually using a website to be an active hobo and rest my body amidst his couch for the exchange of my safety and life. No big deal when you look at the reality of the situation. I thought he was going to ring my neck and sell it at the Saturday farmers market. He rips me a new one and tells me how stupid it is for a young lady to be trusting of someone she has never met. To go on this trek in the middle of the night to try and find someone's place that isn't even answering their phone...Ok Dad, I get it.
We run into a lady and ask to use her phone, that perhaps he's just not answering a number he doesn't know. It's 1 AM. He still doesn't answer. Next thought. Pseudo dad bus stop man tells me I should stay at a hotel. Because I am stubborn and the sheer fact that I was going to be saving all the money surfing an old man's couch, there was no way in hell that I was going to pay ANYTHING to stay over night somewhere I didn't even need to be staying over night at, not to mention, I had a safe bed just hours away in Santiago. No, thank, you, sir. We arrive at the bus station. He tells me that I could probably get a bus ticket and head back to Santiago. Four bus ticketing windows later and we find out that everyone has sold their final tickets for the night. Fuuuuuccckkkk. My life.
It's time to play dirty and pathetic. Old man walks up to the bus driver for one of the lines. He says that he will pay him to take me back to Santiago. Folks! We have ourselves a deal! A measly $50 later and I'm rollin high in the passenger seat of this huge ass bus. Not going to lie, I snapped a photo and felt kind of cool. And tired as a gook. Moments later I'm asked to move to the upstairs seats as I guess I didn't qualify to be co-poilot. Not surprised. I snuggle into my seat, happily knowing I have no neighbors. The bus stops. Now, I have a neighbor. He's acting funny. There's something about it that rings "bodily flirting" to me. You know, the type- for instance- on a plane, that tries to use your shoulder as a pillow and your lap as a kneeding post? Yeah, that kind. Lo and behold, he pretends to pass out and seconds later his hand is grabbing my leg. I punch him square in the face and am rescued by the co-pilot, I guess we've arrived in Santiago. Ok, I didn't punch him but fucking hell mate, you're so lucky I didn't.
The bus dropped me off at the bus station in the city center as it was taking a right and I was a 'favor' drop off. It was kind of awesome. Freaky, to be arriving in the city at 3 AM and not necessarily knowing what that meant. Oh well. Bring it on. It was advantageous that all week I was using the bus line so I knew just what bus to take to get me home safely. Finally, I arrive home, 4 AM and whaddya know, old mate creepsalot sent me a message asking where I was and that if I wanted, I could come tomorrow. Are you kidding me? I know a murder when I hear of one. You will not fool me old man. I just dodged your ice chambers and you will never hear from me again. I swiped left and deleted that shit real quick as I snuggled into the warm hug of safety that greeted me in the bed that which I laid my head that night. I decided that couch surfing was not for me and nodded off into a lala land of maybe I should try a new approach. Yeah, maybe.
Back at a hostel in Santiago
Anyhow, up to this point, I haven't looked at my bank account. I didn't want to see the lack of monetary funds therein. Anytime I thought I was getting courageous enough to look, I would down a few glasses of wine and then would find myself dancing right out of adult mode and finding the nearest live music to slink away into. Ignorance is not bliss in a situation like this, because eventually, the bliss stops, and the ignorance gets you homeless and stranded in foreign lands. This, I could feel churning in my bones and the mortality of my situation looming in the oh too near distance-soon this trip and I were going to have to break up, and it was definitely because of me this time. I, needed grounding, the 'Mom found an empty beer bottle in my closet in 8th grade, grounding. Drats. I decided to lay off the wine this time and go for a run to expend some of the forthcoming anxieties that were bubbling up about what to do next. Anxieties I had to rid before I could comfortably sit in the foretelling decision that was to be made. I arrived back, finding the most comfortable post shower state of being to cuddle myself into, slinking my body into the comforts of pillows, oh yeah, and wine were just the support I needed as I set forth in seeking the answer to my, all too soon destiny. Had I mentioned anywhere that I never thought I would return back to America? Well I am now. Needless to say, this moment was heavy.
After the hiccup in Brazil, I was flat out of money and deep into the illusory debts of the plastic cards that I become all too familiar with flexing. When the reality set in that the last place I pictured myself returning to was exactly the place I was returning to, I made a phone call to Uruguay. "Hola Morghan!," came the enthusiastic response from the other end of the line, from my dear friend Martin. "Martin, amor, how are you? I'm wondering what you are doing next week. I have little funds but want to make a go in South America. Could I stay with you for a few days?!" dripped out of my mouth, like hungry dog to rabbit meat. Awaiting the response, convict facing life sentence, as the next on the fly blueprints of my travels were released into the Universe, gliding on the wings of eagles, vulnerable in the looming forbearance or unperturbed delivery. Sadly, he was to be taking off for a family holiday. The moment had arrived. I was going back to Wisconsin.
Most people's bad ideas stop there.
Mine, have follow through. Through adventure(s) and consequence(s), only to arrive at the same conclusion, that most people begin with-that it's a bad idea and they should be stopped there- frankly, it takes my feathers to be ruffled by life a bit to enable me to circle right back around to see that that idea was indeed, shit.
Shall we begin?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chile. Day Numero Dos.
After getting kicked out of Brazil, I was unstoppable. I could do anything. Right? Wrong. There's something in me that just has to get my hands and feet dirty, my knees scraped up, loose a few bucks, have a run in with an official, fight a ferrile dog...you get the picture. This "trying it my own way," ensures to me that "said outcome," is "said outcome" that all other folks have been telling me.
*See most other people's ideas stop there.
I'm just what you'd call a hands on kinda gal.
Anytime I start out on a traveling feat, I have fears just like anyone else. I want to wet my pants, I feel as though I've forgotten everything, like I may say the wrong thing and get kicked out of the country (oh wait, that's already happened), or perhaps, that I'll be taken (if one more person tells me that whilst traveling, watch out, I will "take" you, Liam Neeson and all). I digress. It takes me a hot second to warm up to what I'm actually getting myself into, and luckily, I never quite know because I don't let myself. To have everything mapped out from start to finish takes away the adventures that lie inside the adventure itself. There is magic that can only occur between the spaces that are left open for things to be created. And by that, my spontaneity provides a veil of cloudy mystery that keeps me out of the dark alleyways of my mind, allowing me to move forward in all of my party plans, and to not get caught up in the what ifs (this is different than naivety).
Morning numero dos in hostel: I was in contact with amigas of amigas as I was planning to adventure my way to Valpariso, the sea side town notorious for it's colorful rooftops and graffiti filled everythingness. My heart sang. My brain, on the other hand, walked me through one billion and one peculiar reasons as to why I shouldn't pack up my tuna salad and bus hop that afternoon into a mystical fairyland of unicorns, and strangers, an adventure promising of a color coma. The only "valid" reason that ensued was that it was after 1 PM and my early birdedness chirped that it was far too late to accomplish any adventures that day, because evidently, adventures retire thereafter. See *fear by *paralysis, and *thatisbullshit. I told you I was still semi-human. My comfort zone was being a real pain in the ass that day, death grip onto the foothold of safety it had latched upon in Santiago, like tick to my dog's head after a crispy forest hike- just not cool. Unfortunately, this one wouldn't die from lighting a torch to it's ass.
With eager conviction after all the self induced hype, I kicked my own ass up out the hostel, and B-lined for the bus station, tuna salad in tote. I arrived only to be sandwiched between the shoddiest trouble makers in the entire cue, such is the story. Fortuitously, the man standing in line behind me just so happened to be the Chilean version of Shack. Boom. I was safe. Regardless, alborotadores uno y dos probably should have been fearing me more than what I had to fear coming out of them. I reckon they were just a bit loco. I, on the other hand, see *taken and *Ihaveablackbeltineverything. No, really.
I snake through the man made human swamp of a cue and purchase my ticket, searching for the magic school bus that was to sling shot me straight into my wildest Harry Potter dreams. Found it. I settle in, stretching my long, lanky legs (I'm 5'6" with a complex) over the adjoining two seats, and happily crack open my home made tuna fish mash, prepared hours before departure, successfully stinking up every corner of the bus while loosing my fork down the aisle in my eager excitement to feast. As I'm about to take my first bite, fingers knuckles deep in smelly tuna mush, sir blonde hair blue eyes is standing over me. "I guess he wants one of these seats," I think to myself. "I'm the window seat," he says. Nailed it. I say "Hola, si."I'm not sure if I was more pissed out that I had to stop eating, that I had to wipe my fingers on the seat and get caught in the act, or if it was that I was going to be squishing myself into one seat when I just had all three. Probably that.
I move out of his rented seat and sprawl about out in my confined territory. Talk about a bird in a cage. I guess the whole "hola, si," thing made me sound as though I was proper Chilean. This I knew because he proceeded to speak to me in some broken down Spanish that I patched together to mean "are you Latin." His effort was definitely an A plus. I thought I would let him struggle a few seconds longer, because yes, sometimes it is a bit entertaining (a lot) to watch the struggle, in the most endearing sense, waxing and waning through the difficulties. I've been in his shoes one too many times so it was my turn to get a little chuckle out of it. I started to feel bad about myself as a person as I let him conduct his struggle bus right into my "I'm American," comment. Clearly, I had no feelings and was emotionless. Thankfully, he laughed. Turned red. Probably would have liked to say something colorful to me or punch me in the face. Luck would have it that, because he was Canadian, he just wanted to be my ally. I don't know if Canadians are happier to be Canadian or people who come into contact with them are happier because they have an instantaneous friend. This, I'm unsure of. Further experiments need to be conducted. Please check back later.
We arrive to Valparaiso, happily chit chattering into the depths our or new (obvious) friendship. When we were getting off the bus, we encountered that awkward moment...like, do I ask him to hang out or does he ask me- since we are literally at the same destination, planning to explore the same amalgam of culture and art, not to mention, the few token English speakers in the place, we may as well continue onward...kind of moments. I'm sure you've all experienced them.
Flashback.
Earlier that day, I reached out to a few friends of friends to try and see if I could sort staying the night in this new land of colors and seashore, I mean, why wouldn't you? I successfully organized a place to stay and an adventure that would load the next day, cupcakes, dinosaurs and all. One hour later, plans cancelled and I have no place to stay. What came to mind was my desire to utilize couch surfing, something I had signed up for years prior, but never experienced in its full derelict potential (except for that one time in Philadelphia with Carly, at that Bong House- we will save that for another time). Tonight was the night. I logged on, sent a handful of messages to the humans who looked somewhat sane, remember, taken is a thing. Finally, I get into cahoots with sir oldmansalot. He tells me I can stay, writes me out step by step directions to his crib, and sends me his digits. I was set.
Fast Forward.
Canadian blue eye blonde hair and I spend the day exploring and scaling the sides of Valparaiso. No one tells you it's literally like trekking up the side of a the Empire State Building, without legs and arms- difficult - just way gnarlier. We take a shot of espresso for good luck, and extra pep as we set out for the voyage. It's funny the topics that are dabbled into when doing random things with strangers met hours prior. I come to find he is scored it big in the Guiness Book of World Records for eating the longest hot dog. Just kidding. He played Fifa for some bogus amount of hours without sleeping or eating. Or maybe not sleeping and eating the longest hot dog. I cannot remember the specs. Not important. After drooling over never ending graffiti, splattered over every street, stair, dog, pole, house, and child, the day came to an end as the sunset upon us as we dined on some sushi, washing it down with warm saki. He said we should head back to the bus as the last one was to leave in about forty minutes. As I typically do, I don't always tell my full plan, instead, I go with the flow and buy myself time as I sort thought what the fuck am I actually doing in my own head, while on the outside looking composed and gung-ho for 'said' plan. If only that were the case. We arrive at the bus station. I drop it on him. "I'm actually going to be taking a taxi up the coast to surf the couch of some old man I have never met before." He gives me the Dad stare and goes on to give me a lecture, basically pushing me forth to the bus. I don't know if it's the adventure or the unknowns that allure me, but dang nabbit, I found myself bidding him farewell and jumping onto the colectivo holding about four thousand more humans that it should have been.
I ride into the setting sun, kind of freaking out as to what the fuck I'm actually doing. Now that the sun is setting, I wasn't feeling oh so confident about this decision to face the night and a strange man...not to mention, I didn't have GPS, the best Chilean Spanish under my belt, or a pistol...The colectivo squeaks and turns and rattles along the seaside, it's beautiful. After about twenty minutes I feel like something just isn't right as we had passed signs of Vina Del Mar, the town I thought I was to stop at. I look over to man next to me and mumble 'where are we' and 'how close is that to Vina?' "Basically," says dude, "you should have gotten off ages ago and now you're going to be getting off in a very dangerous area. Wait five more minutes and you'll still be getting off in the middle of nowhere, but maybe your life will be less endangered." It's black as midnight might I add.
I hop off the colectivo and walk into the nearest petrol station to wee, get some water, gather my thoughts, my life, and try to figure out what the hell to do next. I head back outside and stand at the bus stop just figuring that I should be able to call old strange man and he will walk me through the directions. There is a strange man at the bus stop that keeps looking at me. Naturally, I think he's going to kill me. He walks over. Naturally, he doesn't kill me. He chats with me and asks where I'm headed. I tell him Vina. He tells me that I've overshot it by at least twenty minutes. No shit Sherlock. He offers for me to stay at his place but quickly follows up with no sorry I mean you're a young lady and that's not right. I WOULD offer you my place but if someone were to do this to my daughter, that wouldn't be right either. He asks where I'm staying. I tell him a friends house. Push comes to shove as I'm not able to reach this 'friend' on his mobile. Then more truths come out, that I'm actually using a website to be an active hobo and rest my body amidst his couch for the exchange of my safety and life. No big deal when you look at the reality of the situation. I thought he was going to ring my neck and sell it at the Saturday farmers market. He rips me a new one and tells me how stupid it is for a young lady to be trusting of someone she has never met. To go on this trek in the middle of the night to try and find someone's place that isn't even answering their phone...Ok Dad, I get it.
We run into a lady and ask to use her phone, that perhaps he's just not answering a number he doesn't know. It's 1 AM. He still doesn't answer. Next thought. Pseudo dad bus stop man tells me I should stay at a hotel. Because I am stubborn and the sheer fact that I was going to be saving all the money surfing an old man's couch, there was no way in hell that I was going to pay ANYTHING to stay over night somewhere I didn't even need to be staying over night at, not to mention, I had a safe bed just hours away in Santiago. No, thank, you, sir. We arrive at the bus station. He tells me that I could probably get a bus ticket and head back to Santiago. Four bus ticketing windows later and we find out that everyone has sold their final tickets for the night. Fuuuuuccckkkk. My life.
It's time to play dirty and pathetic. Old man walks up to the bus driver for one of the lines. He says that he will pay him to take me back to Santiago. Folks! We have ourselves a deal! A measly $50 later and I'm rollin high in the passenger seat of this huge ass bus. Not going to lie, I snapped a photo and felt kind of cool. And tired as a gook. Moments later I'm asked to move to the upstairs seats as I guess I didn't qualify to be co-poilot. Not surprised. I snuggle into my seat, happily knowing I have no neighbors. The bus stops. Now, I have a neighbor. He's acting funny. There's something about it that rings "bodily flirting" to me. You know, the type- for instance- on a plane, that tries to use your shoulder as a pillow and your lap as a kneeding post? Yeah, that kind. Lo and behold, he pretends to pass out and seconds later his hand is grabbing my leg. I punch him square in the face and am rescued by the co-pilot, I guess we've arrived in Santiago. Ok, I didn't punch him but fucking hell mate, you're so lucky I didn't.
The bus dropped me off at the bus station in the city center as it was taking a right and I was a 'favor' drop off. It was kind of awesome. Freaky, to be arriving in the city at 3 AM and not necessarily knowing what that meant. Oh well. Bring it on. It was advantageous that all week I was using the bus line so I knew just what bus to take to get me home safely. Finally, I arrive home, 4 AM and whaddya know, old mate creepsalot sent me a message asking where I was and that if I wanted, I could come tomorrow. Are you kidding me? I know a murder when I hear of one. You will not fool me old man. I just dodged your ice chambers and you will never hear from me again. I swiped left and deleted that shit real quick as I snuggled into the warm hug of safety that greeted me in the bed that which I laid my head that night. I decided that couch surfing was not for me and nodded off into a lala land of maybe I should try a new approach. Yeah, maybe.
Back at a hostel in Santiago
Anyhow, up to this point, I haven't looked at my bank account. I didn't want to see the lack of monetary funds therein. Anytime I thought I was getting courageous enough to look, I would down a few glasses of wine and then would find myself dancing right out of adult mode and finding the nearest live music to slink away into. Ignorance is not bliss in a situation like this, because eventually, the bliss stops, and the ignorance gets you homeless and stranded in foreign lands. This, I could feel churning in my bones and the mortality of my situation looming in the oh too near distance-soon this trip and I were going to have to break up, and it was definitely because of me this time. I, needed grounding, the 'Mom found an empty beer bottle in my closet in 8th grade, grounding. Drats. I decided to lay off the wine this time and go for a run to expend some of the forthcoming anxieties that were bubbling up about what to do next. Anxieties I had to rid before I could comfortably sit in the foretelling decision that was to be made. I arrived back, finding the most comfortable post shower state of being to cuddle myself into, slinking my body into the comforts of pillows, oh yeah, and wine were just the support I needed as I set forth in seeking the answer to my, all too soon destiny. Had I mentioned anywhere that I never thought I would return back to America? Well I am now. Needless to say, this moment was heavy.
After the hiccup in Brazil, I was flat out of money and deep into the illusory debts of the plastic cards that I become all too familiar with flexing. When the reality set in that the last place I pictured myself returning to was exactly the place I was returning to, I made a phone call to Uruguay. "Hola Morghan!," came the enthusiastic response from the other end of the line, from my dear friend Martin. "Martin, amor, how are you? I'm wondering what you are doing next week. I have little funds but want to make a go in South America. Could I stay with you for a few days?!" dripped out of my mouth, like hungry dog to rabbit meat. Awaiting the response, convict facing life sentence, as the next on the fly blueprints of my travels were released into the Universe, gliding on the wings of eagles, vulnerable in the looming forbearance or unperturbed delivery. Sadly, he was to be taking off for a family holiday. The moment had arrived. I was going back to Wisconsin.
Saturday, August 27, 2016
because it's already all happening
We're all waiting for something.
But what?
What is that something we grapple with as we sit in the silence that has been offered up and that which we grapple with has already been liberated.
Because the now is that something that we wait for.
The now is what we grapple with while we search for permission to allow ourselves to accept this moment, this now just as it is.
Because we are all waiting for something to happen. For life to start once things get sorted.
Life is in the sorting,
Life is the waiting.
Life is the grappling.
And while you may not come up for a breath of fresh air soon enough, know that life is all happening. It's here in the now.
And while we grapple, and wait, wish and control, life watches us withhold permission to give to ourselves to live. Here. In the now. Fully.
And so we wait. We wait for those moments when we can just be.
We wait for those quiet seconds to sit alone with ourselves, where we will finally understand ourselves.
We wait for that "oh so sought after me time," but when we finally get it, we don't even know what to do with it. We run away as fast as we can. We allow out minds to steer the ship. We allow our fidgeting to cease the stillness.
We are offered these opportunities and couldn't be the wiser of how to learn to be with them. In presence. I watch this play out, dripping of agony and misery as I guide my yoga class through meditation, a treacherous tight rope to walk, as expectation doesn't match reality.
Because we are all waiting for something else to happen. Rather than what is.
Therefore, do we even know what is happening when we are never there to man our ship as the presence greets us, life passing us by as we stare into the past and into the future and everywhere but right where we are. Because this, is all there is.
But what?
What is that something we grapple with as we sit in the silence that has been offered up and that which we grapple with has already been liberated.
Because the now is that something that we wait for.
The now is what we grapple with while we search for permission to allow ourselves to accept this moment, this now just as it is.
Because we are all waiting for something to happen. For life to start once things get sorted.
Life is in the sorting,
Life is the waiting.
Life is the grappling.
And while you may not come up for a breath of fresh air soon enough, know that life is all happening. It's here in the now.
And while we grapple, and wait, wish and control, life watches us withhold permission to give to ourselves to live. Here. In the now. Fully.
And so we wait. We wait for those moments when we can just be.
We wait for those quiet seconds to sit alone with ourselves, where we will finally understand ourselves.
We wait for that "oh so sought after me time," but when we finally get it, we don't even know what to do with it. We run away as fast as we can. We allow out minds to steer the ship. We allow our fidgeting to cease the stillness.
We are offered these opportunities and couldn't be the wiser of how to learn to be with them. In presence. I watch this play out, dripping of agony and misery as I guide my yoga class through meditation, a treacherous tight rope to walk, as expectation doesn't match reality.
Because we are all waiting for something else to happen. Rather than what is.
Therefore, do we even know what is happening when we are never there to man our ship as the presence greets us, life passing us by as we stare into the past and into the future and everywhere but right where we are. Because this, is all there is.
Monday, July 25, 2016
Mrs. Huffington's Grand Piano
Green for miles was the first thing that your eyes took in. The perfectly sculpt shrubbery framing the Huffington Mansion was lit up by a five tiered water-fall like fountain, serenading the approaching ears. When you strode into the party, the click-clacking of dress shoes filled your ears, followed by the laughter and chatter of excited voice. You were lost in the mix of Italian waiters, all you saw was red, but then there was black. Was it a grand piano you ask yourself, but right then four handsome middle aged men waltzed past with their beautiful sweethearts, like a pair of figure skaters on freshly shaven ice. In a frazzle, you take a right, light driving on a busy intersection, in hopes to conquer this obstacle of a house. As if the time stood still, the waves of people parted at the center, creating a walkway for a mysterious guest, your head spins, what was happening? Emerging out of the center of the crowd was the lovely Miss Anita, the queen of the house, which also happened to be the apple of your eye.
It was the summer of 1957 in late June when the ladies and gentlemen of the town had one thing in common: they were all counting down the days until the masquerade ball was to take place in the exquisite Huffington mansion. It was the perfect spot to have a party because it was tucked away in the ritzy area that bordered the shoreline of the glistening lake. Everything about this place was ideal, from the grass, to the flawlessly white swans quack-quacking down the rippling water into the never ending sunset. It was surely a sight to take in. The Huffingtons were known for their wealth and extravagant estate that everyone envied. The Huffingtons had precisely planned every minuet detail, knowing that this was their time to shine. Since they lived in a very comfortable fashion, their servants were put to work as soon as possible.
Purple, red, white. Purple, red, white. All around you were servants buzzing around like busy bees flying in and out of the mansion with fresh grapes from the vineyards. The squish squashing of the grapes along the thick, granite counters stained the bare hands of the arduous working servants. Thoughts encircled you as you floated like a stray balloon into the kitchen from the vineyard, like taking a trip to the toy workshop of Santa's little elves, the one wish you could never dream enough about. The aromas of the finest wines were swept into your nose the minute you strode in through the mammoth-like doors that led from the fantasy land that would have been a plain Jane's backyard.
The richness of the music strummed through the room, your heart was in your ears, the thump thumping putting you at peace with the vibrant surroundings. If you wouldn't have taken a second glance at the pianist, you would have thought that Mozart was gracefully pouring his music over the piano, creating those magical works he was so eminent for. Was that Anita? The piano was showing off your dear Anita who was perched atop of it, like a proud finch incubating her sacred, speckled eggs. You could smell the perfume she was wearing from a mile away, almost like it was tracking you down. It didn't waste time engulfing you, hugging you like a warm blanket on a snowy winter day. You felt all warm and fuzzy inside, not wanting to move like an intricately carved sculpture of a Greek God looking out upon his surroundings with no worries in the world.
There was much work for the servants to do not only was this going to be a party that was to take place inside, but many people were bound to drift outside for the weather was predicted to be dazzling. Out went the servants to begin their work, past the ceiling to floor windows that let the sun pour through them, warming your body like a hot shower, and out through the towering oak doors that led to where all the magic of the outdoors took place. Rows and rows of stunning poppies lined the smooth marble walkway. The poppies were an irritated artist's last attempt to get his paints the right color, splattering the pinks, yellows, and oranges haphazardly about the landscape.
Walking, walking down to the lake, so many things to stop and look at, where to turn, where to turn? There, here, over there. Feeling as if you were trapped inside a fish bowl, the silky, warm water bounced you up and down, exaggerating the whereabouts of the other guests that swam past you, you watched the brilliant colors, like a kite in the wind mixing and falling into one another like whipping the ingredients of a cake. You're out, and you dry off, enough swimming for one day, you think to yourself, but wait, were you even swimming?
Lying before you is a Kentucky Derby's worth of soft grass, some strands lost from the rest, and others holding onto the bottom of your shoes just for the ride. You take your just shined black shoes off, and tuck your best dress socks into your shoes, hiding them safely inside from the world outside. Your warm, naked feet welcome the grass from all around, sending a crisp, but refreshing feeling through your toes, up through your veins, to the tip top of your head, awakening the almost forgotten memories of your childhood, running barefoot on the grass with no intention of ever stopping. Suddenly startled, you snap back from your mind's chicanery. your top hat which was seated upon your head was stolen by the crisp summer breeze as your feet led you to the whispering willows that were settled aside the crystal clear lake. You plopped down next to a dancing willow, eavesdropping on the wind sharing all kinds of wild secrets with the tree. Wondering how they could be telling secrets with the hustle and bustle of the party, you submerge your feet into the lake, letting it cleanse you like a pouring rain, hoping to become incognito with the landscape that unpleasantly scratched your underside. As the breeze played games with your flowing hair, your sun kissed face radiated out into the distance.
Clink, clank, went Anita's fine china as the guests intermingled through the river of poufy dresses, and fine suits that occupied any open space like liquid in a sponge. Glittering jewels reflected upon the walls like gems in a mine, making the onlooker curious as to what precious stones the wall was hiding inside of it. Everyone looked perfect, not a single strand of hair lay out of place, for it hugged the guest's scalps as if they were in line at the barber shop for their few-month-too-late hair cut. you thought your eyes were busy, but your nose was about to retire, until the smell of garlic and butter crept through the thick cloud of perfumes and colognes that hung in the air like bats, too stubborn to move. The extravagant feast of warm pasta towered miles high on the decorative table settings that lined the king's table, next to loaves of garlic bread, and freshly picked lettuce that was waiting to be devoured. Smiles, old friends, new friends, clink, clank.
The party went on until all hours of the night when miss Anita Huffington strolled out onto the moonlit marble path. She was greeted by twinkling white stars smiling at her from the jet black sky. The gentle summer breeze led her to the gates of her mansion. Staring down the drive, she waved guests goodbye, and dreamt of the man who saw her on the piano.
It was the summer of 1957 in late June when the ladies and gentlemen of the town had one thing in common: they were all counting down the days until the masquerade ball was to take place in the exquisite Huffington mansion. It was the perfect spot to have a party because it was tucked away in the ritzy area that bordered the shoreline of the glistening lake. Everything about this place was ideal, from the grass, to the flawlessly white swans quack-quacking down the rippling water into the never ending sunset. It was surely a sight to take in. The Huffingtons were known for their wealth and extravagant estate that everyone envied. The Huffingtons had precisely planned every minuet detail, knowing that this was their time to shine. Since they lived in a very comfortable fashion, their servants were put to work as soon as possible.
Purple, red, white. Purple, red, white. All around you were servants buzzing around like busy bees flying in and out of the mansion with fresh grapes from the vineyards. The squish squashing of the grapes along the thick, granite counters stained the bare hands of the arduous working servants. Thoughts encircled you as you floated like a stray balloon into the kitchen from the vineyard, like taking a trip to the toy workshop of Santa's little elves, the one wish you could never dream enough about. The aromas of the finest wines were swept into your nose the minute you strode in through the mammoth-like doors that led from the fantasy land that would have been a plain Jane's backyard.
The richness of the music strummed through the room, your heart was in your ears, the thump thumping putting you at peace with the vibrant surroundings. If you wouldn't have taken a second glance at the pianist, you would have thought that Mozart was gracefully pouring his music over the piano, creating those magical works he was so eminent for. Was that Anita? The piano was showing off your dear Anita who was perched atop of it, like a proud finch incubating her sacred, speckled eggs. You could smell the perfume she was wearing from a mile away, almost like it was tracking you down. It didn't waste time engulfing you, hugging you like a warm blanket on a snowy winter day. You felt all warm and fuzzy inside, not wanting to move like an intricately carved sculpture of a Greek God looking out upon his surroundings with no worries in the world.
There was much work for the servants to do not only was this going to be a party that was to take place inside, but many people were bound to drift outside for the weather was predicted to be dazzling. Out went the servants to begin their work, past the ceiling to floor windows that let the sun pour through them, warming your body like a hot shower, and out through the towering oak doors that led to where all the magic of the outdoors took place. Rows and rows of stunning poppies lined the smooth marble walkway. The poppies were an irritated artist's last attempt to get his paints the right color, splattering the pinks, yellows, and oranges haphazardly about the landscape.
Walking, walking down to the lake, so many things to stop and look at, where to turn, where to turn? There, here, over there. Feeling as if you were trapped inside a fish bowl, the silky, warm water bounced you up and down, exaggerating the whereabouts of the other guests that swam past you, you watched the brilliant colors, like a kite in the wind mixing and falling into one another like whipping the ingredients of a cake. You're out, and you dry off, enough swimming for one day, you think to yourself, but wait, were you even swimming?
Lying before you is a Kentucky Derby's worth of soft grass, some strands lost from the rest, and others holding onto the bottom of your shoes just for the ride. You take your just shined black shoes off, and tuck your best dress socks into your shoes, hiding them safely inside from the world outside. Your warm, naked feet welcome the grass from all around, sending a crisp, but refreshing feeling through your toes, up through your veins, to the tip top of your head, awakening the almost forgotten memories of your childhood, running barefoot on the grass with no intention of ever stopping. Suddenly startled, you snap back from your mind's chicanery. your top hat which was seated upon your head was stolen by the crisp summer breeze as your feet led you to the whispering willows that were settled aside the crystal clear lake. You plopped down next to a dancing willow, eavesdropping on the wind sharing all kinds of wild secrets with the tree. Wondering how they could be telling secrets with the hustle and bustle of the party, you submerge your feet into the lake, letting it cleanse you like a pouring rain, hoping to become incognito with the landscape that unpleasantly scratched your underside. As the breeze played games with your flowing hair, your sun kissed face radiated out into the distance.
Clink, clank, went Anita's fine china as the guests intermingled through the river of poufy dresses, and fine suits that occupied any open space like liquid in a sponge. Glittering jewels reflected upon the walls like gems in a mine, making the onlooker curious as to what precious stones the wall was hiding inside of it. Everyone looked perfect, not a single strand of hair lay out of place, for it hugged the guest's scalps as if they were in line at the barber shop for their few-month-too-late hair cut. you thought your eyes were busy, but your nose was about to retire, until the smell of garlic and butter crept through the thick cloud of perfumes and colognes that hung in the air like bats, too stubborn to move. The extravagant feast of warm pasta towered miles high on the decorative table settings that lined the king's table, next to loaves of garlic bread, and freshly picked lettuce that was waiting to be devoured. Smiles, old friends, new friends, clink, clank.
The party went on until all hours of the night when miss Anita Huffington strolled out onto the moonlit marble path. She was greeted by twinkling white stars smiling at her from the jet black sky. The gentle summer breeze led her to the gates of her mansion. Staring down the drive, she waved guests goodbye, and dreamt of the man who saw her on the piano.
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
because im scared too
I want you when you don't want you
I want your flaws and your imperfections
I want your shortcomings and your fears
I want your anxieties, your fears and your pain
I want you when you don't want you anymore, when you don't know what to do
I want you in the sunshine and in the fog
When you can't see straight and don't know where to take your next step
I want you in the violent turbulence of the waking of your soul
I want you in rest, in tranquil peace and surrendered trust
I want you in melodic beating of hearts as your breath merges into one with mine
I want you when it's cold and your teeth are chattering and your heart grows cold
I want you to find your warmth within me
I want you when you're broken and torn in the the debris of your own tapestry
I want to patch you up with the twinkling pieces of my heart and soul, creating a mosaic of us
I want you when you're alone and unsure where to turn, as the world beats you up and makes you feel small and worthless
I want to take you in my arms and dissipate your hurting, transforming into gold, into the strength and love that which you are, but you just forgot
I want to forever remind you of your greatness, when you don't want to see it, when you forget where you've placed it
I want you when you don't want me in muck of mental chaos tearing you away from your hearts true desire
I want you when you want me back, when sweet sea breeze unveils that illusions that hold you down, forced compliance in the name of fear
I want you, all of you as you navigate the icy precipice of your existence, like rubix cube drifting in the ocean of your beingness, anxiety flooding the base of your inner temple as you try to figure out this life
I want to unravel the mystery and miracles this life serves up, inviting the chaos, the pain the anxiety with open arms and a heart, gaping open like blue whale feeding on plankton, open to receiving all of you, all of this journey
In unity. Together.
In a delicate game of tug and war, balancing each other out, whisking together the ingredients of our individuality. Taking a risk into the unknown, trusting in blind faith in the flow of what is, sinking deeper into confidence and safety with each passing breath tickling our souls reminding us this is exactly where we should be, gentle reassurance.
To keep going. Full of fear. Risks abounding. And to continue to trust, to feel, to move forward in all the beautiful chaos. Because, we don't have to figure it all out right now. Or ever.
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
the onion of the soul
where does the trigger hit? when chord is struck what is the first thing to feel? the heart? the mind? the soul? things untapped?
is it a call to help, or a soft reminder to look up? to remember that you are not your thoughts, your feelings, your actions, to remain present in the BODY. Of this, I am not certain. The further I delve into the peeling of my own ostensible epidermis, astounds me. the layer that protects serves in tandem as the first layer of vulnerability, waiting in utmost desire for penetration of soul experience. touch. contact. sensations.
the malleability of form, the depth within, crying, sharp knife meeting it's delicate exterior, separating protection from absorption. hiding from being seen. to hold space for the unraveling of the whole, slow dancing between fear and excitement, known and unknown. knowing the uncertainty of the now all that holds true for the single breath of this moment is all that which we are guaranteed.
the triggers serving as a starting point, knife kissing skin, words exchanged in a felt sense, words not meaning words in the way that we think as the body knows no such language thereof. what comes next is none of the certain, pain, strife, integration, chapter opening to next layer.
surrender protection. cease knight's charging vigil. eyes open to the nudity of what is to arise, knife whispering soft riddles, triggering what is yet to come, in this moment, this time.
the malleability of form, the depth within, crying, sharp knife meeting it's delicate exterior, separating protection from absorption. hiding from being seen. to hold space for the unraveling of the whole, slow dancing between fear and excitement, known and unknown. knowing the uncertainty of the now all that holds true for the single breath of this moment is all that which we are guaranteed.
the triggers serving as a starting point, knife kissing skin, words exchanged in a felt sense, words not meaning words in the way that we think as the body knows no such language thereof. what comes next is none of the certain, pain, strife, integration, chapter opening to next layer.
surrender protection. cease knight's charging vigil. eyes open to the nudity of what is to arise, knife whispering soft riddles, triggering what is yet to come, in this moment, this time.
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
the lion & the sea horse
The things that have been going through my mind as of late: power, and the fickle balance between the masculine and the feminine. We give away our power right and left. I find that I've been doing it for the greater part of my life.
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Constantly ripping myself apart only to piece it back together, walking away with a better understanding of how I'm all patched together.
Flowing in and out of the feminine and the masculine. The feeler and the aggressor. Tenderness vs. strength. Responding and reacting. Unsure which should take the drivers seat. Had one wrongly driven when the other as asleep under shady tree cover, lion in the jungle?
Judging myself for not sticking to one side of the coin, embodied in the feminine, it should be a natural state of self. Not knowing where to place my own self; how to contain this slippery soul. Malleable beyond any form. In the blink of an eye, no warning signs.
Solid.
Liquid.
Gas.
Flowing through the cracks in communication, the cracks of the humans, the cracks in nature. Unsure where to place myself. What form to encapsulate? How to contain myself in a form, as it flitters away like sea horse into glistening deep sea.
Colors painting the sky. Changeable. A watercolor smeared above, hands dunked into a plethora of paints, brushing them from one end of the universe to the other.
Mutating. Through experience, moments. Sight. Through life.
With one interaction shattering the known universe, cracking the ground that which i walk. The ripple effect unceasing, reaching a fraction of infinity. Feet sinking into salty wet sand, in attempts to find solid footing.
Keeping head above the incoming tide, masculinity taking the front seat, fighting the incoming wake, aggression in full force, as hooves dig into the ground, bucking and snorting in exhausted effort. Breath coming short. The feminine feeling each ripple, gently tickling my toes, my feet, my legs, and splashing against my belly button, inviting me to sink deeper. Inviting me to play.
To learn to ride the wave, proving to be the most challenging undertaking. The blending of both energies, as they naturally eb and flow in perfect proportions, preprogrammed without calibrated thought, nor effort. The dance, a seemingly simple undertaking.
Solid, Liquid, gas, flowing elusively in natural trajectory to the situations, conversations and moments lived. Malleable beyond any capturable form. The wet salty sand tugging me deeper and deeper into the ground that which I find balance upon. Calmly falling into it's grace, peacefully pulling guiding one foot out the sinking floor that lies beneath, finding a foothold in the earth's changing form.Allowing the incoming surf to tickle body, mind and soul, present in opposing force, as they flow in and out, withdrawing into a fraction of infinity that is unseen, but is experienced and trusted by all that live.
Allowing the self to receive the incoming flow. Trusting. Meeting it in required form. Matching the energy. Breathing it in, in uncalibrated thought or effort, lion asleep under tree cover, flittering sea horse into glistening deep sea, hooves digging deep in search of solid ground.
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Constantly ripping myself apart only to piece it back together, walking away with a better understanding of how I'm all patched together.
Flowing in and out of the feminine and the masculine. The feeler and the aggressor. Tenderness vs. strength. Responding and reacting. Unsure which should take the drivers seat. Had one wrongly driven when the other as asleep under shady tree cover, lion in the jungle?
Judging myself for not sticking to one side of the coin, embodied in the feminine, it should be a natural state of self. Not knowing where to place my own self; how to contain this slippery soul. Malleable beyond any form. In the blink of an eye, no warning signs.
Solid.
Liquid.
Gas.
Flowing through the cracks in communication, the cracks of the humans, the cracks in nature. Unsure where to place myself. What form to encapsulate? How to contain myself in a form, as it flitters away like sea horse into glistening deep sea.
Colors painting the sky. Changeable. A watercolor smeared above, hands dunked into a plethora of paints, brushing them from one end of the universe to the other.
Mutating. Through experience, moments. Sight. Through life.
With one interaction shattering the known universe, cracking the ground that which i walk. The ripple effect unceasing, reaching a fraction of infinity. Feet sinking into salty wet sand, in attempts to find solid footing.
Keeping head above the incoming tide, masculinity taking the front seat, fighting the incoming wake, aggression in full force, as hooves dig into the ground, bucking and snorting in exhausted effort. Breath coming short. The feminine feeling each ripple, gently tickling my toes, my feet, my legs, and splashing against my belly button, inviting me to sink deeper. Inviting me to play.
To learn to ride the wave, proving to be the most challenging undertaking. The blending of both energies, as they naturally eb and flow in perfect proportions, preprogrammed without calibrated thought, nor effort. The dance, a seemingly simple undertaking.
Solid, Liquid, gas, flowing elusively in natural trajectory to the situations, conversations and moments lived. Malleable beyond any capturable form. The wet salty sand tugging me deeper and deeper into the ground that which I find balance upon. Calmly falling into it's grace, peacefully pulling guiding one foot out the sinking floor that lies beneath, finding a foothold in the earth's changing form.Allowing the incoming surf to tickle body, mind and soul, present in opposing force, as they flow in and out, withdrawing into a fraction of infinity that is unseen, but is experienced and trusted by all that live.
Allowing the self to receive the incoming flow. Trusting. Meeting it in required form. Matching the energy. Breathing it in, in uncalibrated thought or effort, lion asleep under tree cover, flittering sea horse into glistening deep sea, hooves digging deep in search of solid ground.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
to push or not to push, that is the question...
The relentless, masochistic part of myself has always had a louder voice, the one that would rather handle a couple rounds of sludge hammer smashes to the head instead of doing the eyeball rolling, big kid stuff that requires constant attention and responsibility, ie. the other voice. Over the years, I've done an exceptional job rationalizing the ataraxia of a beating versus the latter.
Right...
Bloody, and defeated, I then take a step back and analyze the preemptive situation that led me to the sludge attack. It's never as scary, or hard as I pegged it to be. Latest example: work on website. What actually occurs? I go for a thirteen and a half miles "run"...
Faultless logic.
So what gives? The juxtaposition been the subtleties of a push versus a pull, between the mental and physical drive, where one shuts off and the other switches on, this piques me. What motivations lie behind each modality? At what point does the push know to give into the pull and vice versa? They are inextricably linked, this much can not be proven false.
Moving forward, I've always had a thing for conducting longitudinal studies on myself, things such as "wearing glasses while serving increases overall tip percentage," as people irrationally draw a correlation between spectacles and intelligence (obviously true in my case, but nonsensical in regard to general public association), and "being conscious of what you eat makes you a hippie," obviously. As these longitudinal studies have aged, they've now found themselves in the laboratory de la gym.Why? Because it's seemingly the one place I will show up and PUSH the envelope: leg missing, bleeding out, shirtless- whatever it takes, I'm there ready to bring it. The latest research per the subject matter of pushing versus pulling has proved engrossing data, with variables and constants as outlined:
Constant: Show up to gym, pumped up on coffee stronger than jet fuel, ready to kick my ass (cue healthy competition mode unbeknownst to all other humans), with a touch of irritation (it's always too early to be awake at this point) laced with austerity. This combination invariably the best mental cocktail to get me in the fight zone.
Yesterday, I arrive. Cashed. Feeling in a state somewhere between skin suit zombie and meditative Buddha, unsure what reserves I was going to tap into for this training, wanting nothing more than to be in a horizontal coma. Alas, time to lace up the kicks, and surrender to whatever's going to happen. The competition is looking of par, the few men in the room providing my main source of challenge. It's go time.
Variable: The specific exercises and my ranking in class- which typically teeter totters between second and third. The workouts are structured on a consistant frame work of thirty minutes of cardio (intervals/hills/sprints), and thirty minutes of hydro rowing intervals mixed with weight training.
I dive into the rowing and weights for part one. I need to get warmed up for the forth coming madness.
By the second half of class, I've released all self-induced mental pressure, the PUSH, throwing in the white flag if you will, as the sap to my source of 'fight,' is in high dwindle. I'm runnin on fumes. This is the push I'm speaking of, the one that is mind induced, telling you to show up. Tell you to finish first. Telling you to do better than the day before, and shit, why not do better than everyone else in the room? The mental script was no where to be found, and so, I let my body fall into itself, I let go into the physical state of my being, a state of autopilot where the PULL happens by default.
11.3 miles per hour hit.
Whattttt the fuck?
I giggle to myself not knowing where this came from. Frankly, it seemed too easy. I wasn't ready to knock anyone out, I didn't need to swear at the treadmill for being hard as fuck to scale. Nada. Just a chilled ass lack of attempted attempt. At the consummation of class, I reviewed the board displaying our personal training stats. I've nailed first place.
How the fuck?
With no added pressure, self-coaching, motivation, really nothing more than showing up in my skin suit, I was able to, almost effortlessly, rank number one. My mind was clear, I didn't push myself so hard that I inevitably ended up RESISTING my own coaching, riling myself up so hard that myself defeated my own self.
ALAS! At what point does the ego take over, mucking up our primal push/pull compass, playing devil and angel in our self talk? Ironically, this ensues in resistance, as you can never have one state without its opposite, to what you've set out to accomplish?
And where should the line in the sand be drawn that allows us to bring it just enough to let go and allow the body to show up and do the work it knows how to do?
Pause. I gotta go train.Mental procrastination setting in and physical body winning Time to get more information for this study.
11.7 miles per hour hit.
New personal record. Whoa baby.
Because this push and pull paradigm was brought to the forefront of my mind, I drew acute awareness to the build up- the climactic moment in the training where I knew I was going to empty out my tank for all I had. In the leading moments prior to sprinting my ass off, I paid attention to what my body felt like, was my self talk negative or positive, my motivations. Was I pissed off? Excited?
This is a riveting concept to me, as I feel like all things that we DO can be drawn to this parallel. Where one person pushes, the other may pull. One person's procrastination device, another's bread and butter. It's nuts when you actually think about it.
I'm not certain I've come to a definite conclusion to this study, as I am slowing beginning to see how it fits into almost every facet of life OUTSIDE OF THE GYM, but what I have come to find out thus far, is that it's a slight dance in the game of balance, as with all things. The take away as of this moment is that you need to know WHEN to shut off the mind, and let the body do it's thing. You need to know WHEN you're getting in the way of your self. WHEN you need a little more authentic PUSH and a little less PULL.
In conclusion, the words of Newton, "...an object at rest will stay at rest unless acted on by by an unbalanced force. An object in motion continues in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force..." ring true, inside and outside of the laboratory. So if you're like me and think a beating is a bit easier that PUSHING yourself to stay in your damn chair and finish annoying shit, roll up your sleeves, and get dirty in some experimentation. Let the PULL come afterward as a reward for things ticked off the adulting to-do list off your list- a pull to go for that run, take a nap, eat a burger, buy a boat, whatever tickles your fancy. I guarantee you'll see proof in the truth of this law everywhere you look.
Right...
Bloody, and defeated, I then take a step back and analyze the preemptive situation that led me to the sludge attack. It's never as scary, or hard as I pegged it to be. Latest example: work on website. What actually occurs? I go for a thirteen and a half miles "run"...
Faultless logic.
So what gives? The juxtaposition been the subtleties of a push versus a pull, between the mental and physical drive, where one shuts off and the other switches on, this piques me. What motivations lie behind each modality? At what point does the push know to give into the pull and vice versa? They are inextricably linked, this much can not be proven false.
Moving forward, I've always had a thing for conducting longitudinal studies on myself, things such as "wearing glasses while serving increases overall tip percentage," as people irrationally draw a correlation between spectacles and intelligence (obviously true in my case, but nonsensical in regard to general public association), and "being conscious of what you eat makes you a hippie," obviously. As these longitudinal studies have aged, they've now found themselves in the laboratory de la gym.Why? Because it's seemingly the one place I will show up and PUSH the envelope: leg missing, bleeding out, shirtless- whatever it takes, I'm there ready to bring it. The latest research per the subject matter of pushing versus pulling has proved engrossing data, with variables and constants as outlined:
Constant: Show up to gym, pumped up on coffee stronger than jet fuel, ready to kick my ass (cue healthy competition mode unbeknownst to all other humans), with a touch of irritation (it's always too early to be awake at this point) laced with austerity. This combination invariably the best mental cocktail to get me in the fight zone.
Yesterday, I arrive. Cashed. Feeling in a state somewhere between skin suit zombie and meditative Buddha, unsure what reserves I was going to tap into for this training, wanting nothing more than to be in a horizontal coma. Alas, time to lace up the kicks, and surrender to whatever's going to happen. The competition is looking of par, the few men in the room providing my main source of challenge. It's go time.
Variable: The specific exercises and my ranking in class- which typically teeter totters between second and third. The workouts are structured on a consistant frame work of thirty minutes of cardio (intervals/hills/sprints), and thirty minutes of hydro rowing intervals mixed with weight training.
I dive into the rowing and weights for part one. I need to get warmed up for the forth coming madness.
By the second half of class, I've released all self-induced mental pressure, the PUSH, throwing in the white flag if you will, as the sap to my source of 'fight,' is in high dwindle. I'm runnin on fumes. This is the push I'm speaking of, the one that is mind induced, telling you to show up. Tell you to finish first. Telling you to do better than the day before, and shit, why not do better than everyone else in the room? The mental script was no where to be found, and so, I let my body fall into itself, I let go into the physical state of my being, a state of autopilot where the PULL happens by default.
11.3 miles per hour hit.
Whattttt the fuck?
I giggle to myself not knowing where this came from. Frankly, it seemed too easy. I wasn't ready to knock anyone out, I didn't need to swear at the treadmill for being hard as fuck to scale. Nada. Just a chilled ass lack of attempted attempt. At the consummation of class, I reviewed the board displaying our personal training stats. I've nailed first place.
How the fuck?
With no added pressure, self-coaching, motivation, really nothing more than showing up in my skin suit, I was able to, almost effortlessly, rank number one. My mind was clear, I didn't push myself so hard that I inevitably ended up RESISTING my own coaching, riling myself up so hard that myself defeated my own self.
ALAS! At what point does the ego take over, mucking up our primal push/pull compass, playing devil and angel in our self talk? Ironically, this ensues in resistance, as you can never have one state without its opposite, to what you've set out to accomplish?
And where should the line in the sand be drawn that allows us to bring it just enough to let go and allow the body to show up and do the work it knows how to do?
Pause. I gotta go train.
11.7 miles per hour hit.
New personal record. Whoa baby.
Because this push and pull paradigm was brought to the forefront of my mind, I drew acute awareness to the build up- the climactic moment in the training where I knew I was going to empty out my tank for all I had. In the leading moments prior to sprinting my ass off, I paid attention to what my body felt like, was my self talk negative or positive, my motivations. Was I pissed off? Excited?
This is a riveting concept to me, as I feel like all things that we DO can be drawn to this parallel. Where one person pushes, the other may pull. One person's procrastination device, another's bread and butter. It's nuts when you actually think about it.
I'm not certain I've come to a definite conclusion to this study, as I am slowing beginning to see how it fits into almost every facet of life OUTSIDE OF THE GYM, but what I have come to find out thus far, is that it's a slight dance in the game of balance, as with all things. The take away as of this moment is that you need to know WHEN to shut off the mind, and let the body do it's thing. You need to know WHEN you're getting in the way of your self. WHEN you need a little more authentic PUSH and a little less PULL.
In conclusion, the words of Newton, "...an object at rest will stay at rest unless acted on by by an unbalanced force. An object in motion continues in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force..." ring true, inside and outside of the laboratory. So if you're like me and think a beating is a bit easier that PUSHING yourself to stay in your damn chair and finish annoying shit, roll up your sleeves, and get dirty in some experimentation. Let the PULL come afterward as a reward for things ticked off the adulting to-do list off your list- a pull to go for that run, take a nap, eat a burger, buy a boat, whatever tickles your fancy. I guarantee you'll see proof in the truth of this law everywhere you look.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
that one time i got kicked out of a country
Once upon a time there was a girl named Morghan. She was a fly by the seat of her pants, the " I'll figure it out when I get there," kinda gal.
So the story goes:
.................................................................................................................................................................
I arrived home from Australia, a year and a half later, totting two suitcases that encompassed the entirety of my being. Confused, and tired, suffering that reverse culture shock thing you read about in High School Psychology class-shits real-, happening all at once. I dumped my belongings haphazardly around my bedroom, as I made a half-assed attempt to re-pack for my next ensuing adventure-a one way to South America, a mere ten days later. Based on my remarkable planning abilities, as seen throughout history, I tactically allotted myself a whopping seven days, prior to "forever departure from Wisconsin," part dos, to catch up with everyone I cared about. "The everyone" I hadn't seen in over a year and a half. As I sat thinking this through, gazing at the walls in my childhood bedroom, fully furnished with the twin sized bed, the one whose sheets I grew up wetting, I laid on the floor, trying to wrap my head around all that was happening in life, and HOW THE FUCK I actually got back to America- for real though. It all did my head in. In a solid attempt to meditate, a fresh new skill I picked up from a trusty Aussie mate, I laid on my bedroom floor, and fell asleep. Good thing timing has a keen sense of humor.
Life looked bleak.
Let's fast forward to the goods...over the course of the next five days, Mom tries her damnedest to talk me out of going to South America. Aside from the obvious reasons- being sold into sex slavery, drug trafficking, kidnapping and inevitable murder and rape during, after, or before any of the aforementioned scenarios panned out, the icing on the cake came when she said, "you could always come to Germany with me?!"
Really.
She continues "and I'll cover your flight losses." That was one dirty deal to lay on the table, and if it weren't for my jet legged vulnerability laden skepticism, I may have said OK. Outside of that, there was an inner pull, drawing me to South America, one that was stronger than all the bribes and potential life ending outcomes. I had no choice but to continue my hustle.
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I arrive at the airport scared shitless as to what I've actually signed myself up for and how the hell I'm going to make it with the seven hundred dollars I currently have to my name. Alas, I'll figure it out when I get there. While standing in line, I overhear one of the airline associates asking the woman behind me to show proof of her onward journey. The fuck is an onward journey? Whomever says street smarts are over rated, they're lying. Channeling my inner thug, I put two and two together and began story crafting as I never knew this was a thing. She asks if a bus pass out of Costa Rica will do. The man gives her wave and she passes on. I'm next. "Ma'ma, onward journey?"
"Funny story, sir. I don't have one." The man sternly replied "you won't be flying today." Panic drowns my existence. Conveniently still using my Australian phone service, I have no choice but to access the shoddy free internet, the connect-free-for-one-thousand-dollars-and-we-will-give-you-two-minutes-free-after-this-quick-two-minute-online-survey-you'll-need-to-complete-prior-to-access. That kind of wifi. There was no way time was going to allow for this degree of dicking around, so I got up and ran for help.
There was no sugary coating dripping off my tongue as I approached the stern man pleading for help. The man reiterated his earlier statement. After laying the vulnerability on thick,that I only had seven hundred dollars to make this happen and my dire need to get on this plane, something changed in his demeanor. "Follow me," he said. We snaked around to the back office as he pulled up a chair for me to sit. We scoured the internet to find the most affordable flights or bus tickets providing the most uncomplicated country entrance.
As the mouse hovered over a bus ticket for a fifty-two hour bus trip from Lima, Peru to Santiago, Chile, I give him the green light to click purchase. Jesus. Needless to say, I'll figure it out when I get there. Finally, I board the flight, onward journey in tow.
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Arid, hot and bustling, the Peruvian night greets me. I'm overdressed and ready to take on this taxi ride, feeling quite confident in my Spanish speaking skills. Things are looking up.
As the taxi man shuts the door behind me, what I think is Spanish comes gushing out of his mouth. All the years of Spanish failing me in two seconds. I dig deep, suck up all my pride, and let it rip. Sounding something like a five year old, all proper grammar thrown out the window into the fresh night's breeze, I weave my way through a diverse conversation, complete with facts of the dangerous areas, the ones where I will certainly be sold into sex slavery or taken. Have you seen the movie?
Hostel found, cats everywhere, culture shock ensues. Here we go.
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Travels, mountains hiked, Macchu Pichu scaled, Quechua overheard, international mates met, peculiar foods consumed- I'm finally alive!
And so the day comes, the one I deleted from my memory. I pack my bags- food made and all (health freak plus bus food don't click) - and wait patiently to board my bus. As we file onto the double-decker, I feel a new adventure coming to a head. I scan my fellow passengers, studying my compadres, whom will inexorably be family after this exodus. I'm clearly the adopted Gringa.
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ONE DAY LATER
I can't feel my ass. I have watched more Spanish films than I know what to do with. Everyone either thinks I'm lost, confused, or famous on this bus- because why else would a young white girl be on a bus like this? I've moved no further than two inches in every direction, and have woken up to the chiquitita next to me, staring, at least four times now. She seals the deal at the end of the night and hands me a homemade bracelet that says "I LOVE YOU." At least I've got an admirer.
TWO DAYS LATER
I still can't feel my ass. It's probably flat. I may have forgotten how to walk. Is that a real thing? I smell like bus, sweaty humans and chica. I'm not sure when I showered last. Brushed my teeth? This is gross.
We arrive at some Mama and Papa owned restaurant. We're given an hour to stretch the legs, get some real food and....shower? As I follow the cue of ladies into the loo, I can't help but notice the normalcy of showering in the sink. Literally submersing all available parts of one's body into the sink for the scrubbin. Brilliant. My gaze settles upon a massive barrel of water, sitting at the entrance with a pale in it. "This should be interesting...," I think to myself. Lo and behold, self flushing methodology parte uno. Good thing I'm closer to the back of the line. I can take the token Gringa card, but a dumb Gringa? No thank you. I take note....
Grab pale.
Fill with water.
Walk to sussed out toilet.
Pour water contents of pale into toilet of choice.
Walk back to massive barrel.
Refill with water.
Place pale of water on ground.
Do your thing.
Pull up pants.
Grab pale.
Empty water contents into toilet.
Flush while pouring water into toilet.
Fool proof. I got this.
After I kill the toilet situation, I'm feelin pretty capable and slightly badass. I decide it's time for an adventure. This restaurant "bus stop" is set up like a compound, concrete walls enveloping; bizarre. I push the button for the doors to open, figuring, there's gotta be a button on the other end to open to let me back in. We've still got a good thirty minutes of recess. I'm not worried.
I stroll down the sidewalk, knowing I'm somewhere between Wisconsin and Chile, and not much more. The air is fresh as my strides resemble something like a newly birthed doe, as the muscle memory in my legs attempts to wake up. Good news, I can feel my ass again. We are onto something good here. Daydreaming and soaking in the early morning rays of sunshine as I take in the foreign surroundings, thirty minutes unknowingly passes. I scramble back to the compound, trying to root myself in phlegmatic state after this shocking realization.
I get back to the door.
No button.
Fuck.
I begin to feel like Michael Scofield in Prision Break, trying to think fast at how I'm going to either scale this wall, or...scale this wall. Option b: sit outside this wall and wait for the bus to leave. Option b looks promising if I don't get run over in the process. I think I'll climb.
Ten fraught minutes pass, surely the bus should have tried to leave by now. Then I remember I'm in South America time now. As I began staking out the best spot to spiderman this wall, all of a sudden, the gate opens. I shit my pants. I'm saved. Thank you Jesus.
Homie opens the door like he never noticed the white girl went missing.
He lets me on the bus.
I play it cool, and blend right in.
DAY TWO POINT FIVE
Actually kill me.
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Chile.
Somewhere between the five check points of proving I'm not a drug dealer or pack mule (or am I), I'm handed a rectangular piece of translucent paper, smaller than a post-it. I'm told nothing about it. My gum is looking like it's going to have a nice home momentarily. New bestie from the
Tour-De-South-America hands offers me a fresh piece of gum. I ablige. Old gum, new home. Weird paper safe.
Frankly, what they don't tell you is that this paper is your life line, needed for everything. Hostel stay? Needed paper. Take money out of ATM? Need paper. It was au fond, my visa to be in the Country. Small print anyone?
NEXT BRILLIANT IDEA
Go to Brazil.
As irony would have it, I met the Barista Trainer of my old boss in Australia, as I scoured Santiago for specialty coffee shops. One coffee nerding out session later, all the jobs are handed to me on a silver platter.
Then not a single one of them come through.
Surely, Brazil was the next Country calling my soul into its open arms.
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NEW PLAN
Wait ten days for Clara to arrive from Argentina to Chile- where I'm currently residing at her sister's place, and Carnival, reunion with Brazilian-Aussie mates, and all the Bahias have got our names written all over em!
This time, I make sure to cross all my T's and dot all my I's. Starting with all the embassies: US, Brazilian, Ethiopian, Chinese, and so forth, I am diligent about gathering all the facts - onward journeys, visas, and so forth. I come to find no visa is necessary to enter Brazil.
Fantastic.
Clara arrives to Chile.
Clara departs for Brazil. I wish her bon voyage as I'll be seeing her in a few shy hours.
THE NEXT DAY
I arrive to the airport, early, stoked. When I finally get to the front of the line, I'm asked to see my visa. You've got to be fucking kidding me. I inform her- in my sternest Spanish - that I was told no visa was required, and to let me board already. With sense of urgency exploding from her being, she goes and has a chat with some work mates, goes and takes a phone call a few desks down, gets a compliment on her nails, eventually making her way back to me, only to sit down and carry on another chat with new work mates. About ten minutes and four phone calls later, her newly done nails pop my travel bubble and again, the words "you will not be traveling today," hit me like a semi, because this time, I needed a visa. I sprinted like a cheetah from one side of the airport to the other in search of a computer. Again, Australian cell phone service serving no purpose.
I find a 1914 Dell Computer, the size of France, and google travel visas for Brazil. I buy the first 'visa' that pops up. Four hundred dollars later, uncertain what I've just purchased, I'm sprinting back to miss thang with some arbitrary file printed off- essentially the next steps I needed to complete acquire a proper visa. Looks like it was time to pull out the dumb Gringa card, because after all, I had already earned it, from the beginning.
"You missed your flight," she whistles. Naturally. I listen as she directs me to two gents that will be able to drum up solutions for my current situation. "Repurchase your connecting flights, it's that easy," they sing. Since I'm already on a spending spree, I concur. But first, I coerce them to review my Visa to ensure, this time, I'll be able to board my flight. They assure me I've got it right this time, and they send me on my way.
I hail a cab only to be returning eight hours later. Stress oozes out of me, the thought of punching someone in the face, tickling my prefrontal cortex. Luckily, I don't. En-route back to my mate's house, all I can do is pray that the keys I attempted to jimmy under the door, are still there. Alelujah! They greet me with shiny silver smiles. Note to self, you should never become a robber. Cue overindulging in the stress related consumption of chocolate, dulce de leche by the spoon full and a substantial amount of wine into the body. That should do the trick.
EIGHT HOURS LATER
It's three am. I'm sick as a dog, hungover on chocolate, wine and dulce from the previous bad decision of hours apassed. Not to mention, I've slept two hours, and that's rounding up. I hail a cab. I want to die. Old mate taxi is sketchy. For the first time, I think I may actually die, as my new found familiarity with the house to airport route rings no recognition. I bid farewell to my life.
Looks like it's not my time to knock off just yet. I arrive at the airport and pass my first check point sans hassle. All excitement contained, as I still have a ways to go.
I plop down, heavy and sleepy at my gate, anxiously waiting to board my flight to Sao Paulo. I watch as a flight attendant makes her rounds, as a ticket pre-check. My eyes follow her, transfixed, and she determinedly winds through the rows of consecutive passengers, approaching each for said document. She stands before me. "Visa?" she requests. I carefully dig out my veiled Visa and present it to her. Her gruff tone, heavy with skepticism, as she questions the legitimacy of my document. I gave her the footnotes of yesterdays interaction with the gents of the airline, assuring her everything was OK. Clearly it was just as much "too early," as it was for me, as it was for her, as she turned on her heel, grumbling under her breath. I board the plane. My translucent paper extracted from my possession.
FOUR HOURS LATER
I'm feelin fancy, as we roll up onto the tarmac in Sao Paulo. I've got THE water bottle and everything. All the hustle thoroughly worth it in this moment of triumph.
Portuguese floats through the air as the organized chaos of customs attempts to assemble us into single file lines. Breast puffed, cocky as a peacock in heat, I cue up. The customs homem (man) greets me, extending his hand for collection of my documents. I audaciously hand them over. His brow furrows as he stares a bit too long at my "visa." "Wait here," he says, "I don't speak much English." Outwardly keeping my cool, I a wave of dismay cloaks my body.
A few moments later, the man returns, directing me to wait outside what looks like a holding room. I hold my breath as two police men approach me from inside the holding room. They have my documents. They ask no questions. A third man walks up. He motions for me to follow him. The panic that had a strong hold on my earlier, slowly trickled away, as I was escorted through the Airport. For a moment, I thought to myself, that perhaps, this is how things rolled in Brazil, escorting you to connecting flights? My escortee's shout pulled me out of my daydream. I couldn't sift through the Portuguese quick enough to understand what he was saying. Clearly, this was no escort service.
We arrived to a gate. I looked up. "SANTIAGO, CHILE," read the board. He pointed at a seat. I took his instruction and sat. A gorda (pleasantly plump) middle aged woman walked up. She had a warm disposition about her and a smile in her eyes. I was beyond defeated at this point, and seeing an inviting face such as hers was a hug to my soul. I melted further into the chair, as my tenacious goal slipped further and further away, like losing something underwater, elusively close, and yet, unattainable. Finally, she spoke to me, "do you know what is going on?" "I'm catchin on quick," I thought to myself, and what came out was a giant "no." Miss Gorda was the last line of defense. It was over. I was to be sent back to Santiago because to enter Brazil, even momentarily, a visa was required, and a visa that was completely processed, unlike mine.
I had no words.
I shed one tear, a tear of defeat, as she led me down the aisle of the airplane, seat picked out and all. I settled in, knowing in a span of ten hours, I successfully made half of my destination, and even more successfully managed to find my way back to Chile. Then it occurred to me, I didn't have my translucent visa for Chile any longer....
Too soon. I passed out.
CHILE ROUND TWO
I wake up to the shuffling of passengers collecting their overhead luggage, as a rubbed the grogginess out of my eyes. Crazy to think it was only 11 AM and I'd already gotten kicked out of one Country, and well on my way to returning to another. I grab my backpack and lug it onto my back. Like clockwork, I take my place in the customs cue, with no energy left to ad-lib any story. "Hola. Papeles?" says the kind man behind the desk. At this point, my fluency is back, all humility gone, I tell him I've been kicked out of Brazil, and I was just in Chile this morning. They took my paper when I left. We play word hacky-sack for quite some time, as Spanish turns to Spaniglish, and language turns to laughter and whaddya know, I'm brought back to the cops outside another holding office.
Two cops exit and ask me what's going on- "que paso?" After I inform them I was kicked out Brazil and there's no choice but to let me back into Chile-because I was just here- they send me back to the chipper customs officer. He must not have caught on to the severity, or even half of what I told him just occurred, as when I came forth again to rehash the same story, his eyes bulged straight out of his head, like a deer in the headlights, followed by a deep belly laugh. Actually, I think there was a repeated offense of laughter. Yeah, that sounds more like it. I didn't even have the energy to cry, so I joined him in laughter. Why not? I guess I had a good story at this point, and I still had my water bottle, proof that I was indeed in Brazil. It had to count for something. After he shot the shit at me for a few minutes, throwing out some cheeky lines, informing me of how much that would suck (you think?), how I'm trouble, and so on, he ended up letting me back into the country.
But he never gave me the translucent slip.
I realize this two days later as I'm checking into a hostel after another fatal attempt to get to Brazil.
Oh, you want that story too?
TRAIN STATION
This itch won't go away, I've got to get to Brazil. Clara is on day number two Carnival time, keeping me well informed of all that I should be a part of: dancing in the streets with locals, bright feathers and meticulously ornate masks adorning bronzed bodies, decorated in bold costumes, flaunting bare skin.
Somehow, I arrvied at the train station. I was bound and determined to find the Brazilian Embassy and get my visa sorted. Not having a relevant mobile with wifi made things quite difficult. It was time to get creative, yet again. I drew the parallel in my mind that I should be scouting for the oldest looking human in my midst. Why? Because they would obviously be the most knowledgeable- they've been around the longest. I b line towards the most elderly candidate I can find. I ask him where the embassy is located, even providing him the name of the town. He stares blankly. I repeat my question, jumbling the order of the words this time, thinking maybe it'll hit home. Blank stares. A woman approaches me and asks what I'm looking for, as I may have just found the most elderly deaf man in the room.
I repeat. She tells me to tag along with her, we are headed in the same direction. About ten minutes into our journey, she tells me she thought I was Latin, and fluent, but now that we've had more time to converse, she hears the nuances that tell her just the opposite. Perhaps that's why old man withers didn't know a lick of what I was saying. We arrive at the Embassy, having gotten lost twice in the process, to the front desk man informing us the Embassy is closed for the public for the day. Marta, my new amiga, gives them the story, her Chileano origins giving us a big one up in this pickle. Finally.
They let us through. The next lady in charge listens intently as we explain what happened, and what we need. She takes us aside at the conclusion of the story, as Marta whispers clandestinely "what can you do to help us?" The woman says that if we arrive back tomorrow with newly purchased tickets (that would be six total tickets purchased to Brazil), and a proper photo, we would be able to get me there in ten days, fingers crossed. Mind you, Clara, and the rest of our mates would be leaving four days after I would arrive, based off of our original plans. At this rate, I didn't even know if I had any money left, after buying all these wasted tickets. We part ways until tomorrow. Maybe.
Marta and I make our way back to my mate's place, as I had to get my things and suss out a new arrangement as they were headed out of town. I was planning to stay at a hostel when Marta offered her place to me. I agreed. We hustled back to pack my things, and took two cabs and a bus to lord knows where. In the midst of this transition, her daughter ended up joining forces with us. As we headed back to Marta's for dinner, she looked at my broken down soul and made a swift left. Liquor store. She was kind AND wise. Wine and beer hugged to our chests, we pushed on to get home. We talked and laughed over my travel stories as Marta finally got the entire tale. I drank the bottle of wine.
As dinner came to a close, I was cashed. My brain was fried from translating Spanish to English and speaking Spanish all day, not to mention the impromptu adventures of the last two days. I rang Clara. We talked things over and I decided I was going to have to pull out. It was a sad moment, and quite frankly, I had to take a logical stance on the matter and factor in my lack of funds, which now would have gotten me no further than a day in Brazil. It was also becoming quite clear that the Universe was trying to tell me it wasn't the right time to go-it only took three failed attempts to get this through my thick and stubborn skull.
URUGUAY
Marta and Valentina pack me up and take me to my hostel. I decided I will spend a few days actually enjoying my time here in Chile. It's been well deserved. While out on a run, I decide I will give my friend Martin a call and see if he would like to go on an adventure, as he just recently returned to his home of Uruguay from Australia. Martin is keen. I take a look at dates, and flights, and realize this is a stupid idea. I don't even think I have checked my bank account up to this point, because I know that once I see the facts, my fun is over and it's time to head back to....America...Wisconsin at that.
I check my funds-truly, I don't even know if I do- but after another run, I think to myself, maybe it's time to start back from square one. I call Mom. She tells me to come home but doesn't believe I will come back. She finally understands how I roll. I tell her I will be coming home, but I need a few more days to play before purchasing a ticket.
Then I tell her I may stop in Uruguay first, moreso for reaction sake. I think she punched me in the face via the telephone. It hurt.
And so.
Two days later, drinks had, explorations dabbled in, limbs danced off, mates met, sleep lost, I packed my things, and boarded yet another flight, back, to, America....
To be continued....
So the story goes:
.................................................................................................................................................................
I arrived home from Australia, a year and a half later, totting two suitcases that encompassed the entirety of my being. Confused, and tired, suffering that reverse culture shock thing you read about in High School Psychology class-shits real-, happening all at once. I dumped my belongings haphazardly around my bedroom, as I made a half-assed attempt to re-pack for my next ensuing adventure-a one way to South America, a mere ten days later. Based on my remarkable planning abilities, as seen throughout history, I tactically allotted myself a whopping seven days, prior to "forever departure from Wisconsin," part dos, to catch up with everyone I cared about. "The everyone" I hadn't seen in over a year and a half. As I sat thinking this through, gazing at the walls in my childhood bedroom, fully furnished with the twin sized bed, the one whose sheets I grew up wetting, I laid on the floor, trying to wrap my head around all that was happening in life, and HOW THE FUCK I actually got back to America- for real though. It all did my head in. In a solid attempt to meditate, a fresh new skill I picked up from a trusty Aussie mate, I laid on my bedroom floor, and fell asleep. Good thing timing has a keen sense of humor.
Life looked bleak.
Let's fast forward to the goods...over the course of the next five days, Mom tries her damnedest to talk me out of going to South America. Aside from the obvious reasons- being sold into sex slavery, drug trafficking, kidnapping and inevitable murder and rape during, after, or before any of the aforementioned scenarios panned out, the icing on the cake came when she said, "you could always come to Germany with me?!"
Really.
She continues "and I'll cover your flight losses." That was one dirty deal to lay on the table, and if it weren't for my jet legged vulnerability laden skepticism, I may have said OK. Outside of that, there was an inner pull, drawing me to South America, one that was stronger than all the bribes and potential life ending outcomes. I had no choice but to continue my hustle.
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I arrive at the airport scared shitless as to what I've actually signed myself up for and how the hell I'm going to make it with the seven hundred dollars I currently have to my name. Alas, I'll figure it out when I get there. While standing in line, I overhear one of the airline associates asking the woman behind me to show proof of her onward journey. The fuck is an onward journey? Whomever says street smarts are over rated, they're lying. Channeling my inner thug, I put two and two together and began story crafting as I never knew this was a thing. She asks if a bus pass out of Costa Rica will do. The man gives her wave and she passes on. I'm next. "Ma'ma, onward journey?"
"Funny story, sir. I don't have one." The man sternly replied "you won't be flying today." Panic drowns my existence. Conveniently still using my Australian phone service, I have no choice but to access the shoddy free internet, the connect-free-for-one-thousand-dollars-and-we-will-give-you-two-minutes-free-after-this-quick-two-minute-online-survey-you'll-need-to-complete-prior-to-access. That kind of wifi. There was no way time was going to allow for this degree of dicking around, so I got up and ran for help.
There was no sugary coating dripping off my tongue as I approached the stern man pleading for help. The man reiterated his earlier statement. After laying the vulnerability on thick,that I only had seven hundred dollars to make this happen and my dire need to get on this plane, something changed in his demeanor. "Follow me," he said. We snaked around to the back office as he pulled up a chair for me to sit. We scoured the internet to find the most affordable flights or bus tickets providing the most uncomplicated country entrance.
As the mouse hovered over a bus ticket for a fifty-two hour bus trip from Lima, Peru to Santiago, Chile, I give him the green light to click purchase. Jesus. Needless to say, I'll figure it out when I get there. Finally, I board the flight, onward journey in tow.
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Arid, hot and bustling, the Peruvian night greets me. I'm overdressed and ready to take on this taxi ride, feeling quite confident in my Spanish speaking skills. Things are looking up.
As the taxi man shuts the door behind me, what I think is Spanish comes gushing out of his mouth. All the years of Spanish failing me in two seconds. I dig deep, suck up all my pride, and let it rip. Sounding something like a five year old, all proper grammar thrown out the window into the fresh night's breeze, I weave my way through a diverse conversation, complete with facts of the dangerous areas, the ones where I will certainly be sold into sex slavery or taken. Have you seen the movie?
Hostel found, cats everywhere, culture shock ensues. Here we go.
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Travels, mountains hiked, Macchu Pichu scaled, Quechua overheard, international mates met, peculiar foods consumed- I'm finally alive!
And so the day comes, the one I deleted from my memory. I pack my bags- food made and all (health freak plus bus food don't click) - and wait patiently to board my bus. As we file onto the double-decker, I feel a new adventure coming to a head. I scan my fellow passengers, studying my compadres, whom will inexorably be family after this exodus. I'm clearly the adopted Gringa.
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ONE DAY LATER
I can't feel my ass. I have watched more Spanish films than I know what to do with. Everyone either thinks I'm lost, confused, or famous on this bus- because why else would a young white girl be on a bus like this? I've moved no further than two inches in every direction, and have woken up to the chiquitita next to me, staring, at least four times now. She seals the deal at the end of the night and hands me a homemade bracelet that says "I LOVE YOU." At least I've got an admirer.
TWO DAYS LATER
I still can't feel my ass. It's probably flat. I may have forgotten how to walk. Is that a real thing? I smell like bus, sweaty humans and chica. I'm not sure when I showered last. Brushed my teeth? This is gross.
We arrive at some Mama and Papa owned restaurant. We're given an hour to stretch the legs, get some real food and....shower? As I follow the cue of ladies into the loo, I can't help but notice the normalcy of showering in the sink. Literally submersing all available parts of one's body into the sink for the scrubbin. Brilliant. My gaze settles upon a massive barrel of water, sitting at the entrance with a pale in it. "This should be interesting...," I think to myself. Lo and behold, self flushing methodology parte uno. Good thing I'm closer to the back of the line. I can take the token Gringa card, but a dumb Gringa? No thank you. I take note....
Grab pale.
Fill with water.
Walk to sussed out toilet.
Pour water contents of pale into toilet of choice.
Walk back to massive barrel.
Refill with water.
Place pale of water on ground.
Do your thing.
Pull up pants.
Grab pale.
Empty water contents into toilet.
Flush while pouring water into toilet.
Fool proof. I got this.
After I kill the toilet situation, I'm feelin pretty capable and slightly badass. I decide it's time for an adventure. This restaurant "bus stop" is set up like a compound, concrete walls enveloping; bizarre. I push the button for the doors to open, figuring, there's gotta be a button on the other end to open to let me back in. We've still got a good thirty minutes of recess. I'm not worried.
I stroll down the sidewalk, knowing I'm somewhere between Wisconsin and Chile, and not much more. The air is fresh as my strides resemble something like a newly birthed doe, as the muscle memory in my legs attempts to wake up. Good news, I can feel my ass again. We are onto something good here. Daydreaming and soaking in the early morning rays of sunshine as I take in the foreign surroundings, thirty minutes unknowingly passes. I scramble back to the compound, trying to root myself in phlegmatic state after this shocking realization.
I get back to the door.
No button.
Fuck.
I begin to feel like Michael Scofield in Prision Break, trying to think fast at how I'm going to either scale this wall, or...scale this wall. Option b: sit outside this wall and wait for the bus to leave. Option b looks promising if I don't get run over in the process. I think I'll climb.
Ten fraught minutes pass, surely the bus should have tried to leave by now. Then I remember I'm in South America time now. As I began staking out the best spot to spiderman this wall, all of a sudden, the gate opens. I shit my pants. I'm saved. Thank you Jesus.
Homie opens the door like he never noticed the white girl went missing.
He lets me on the bus.
I play it cool, and blend right in.
DAY TWO POINT FIVE
Actually kill me.
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Chile.
Somewhere between the five check points of proving I'm not a drug dealer or pack mule (or am I), I'm handed a rectangular piece of translucent paper, smaller than a post-it. I'm told nothing about it. My gum is looking like it's going to have a nice home momentarily. New bestie from the
Tour-De-South-America hands offers me a fresh piece of gum. I ablige. Old gum, new home. Weird paper safe.
Frankly, what they don't tell you is that this paper is your life line, needed for everything. Hostel stay? Needed paper. Take money out of ATM? Need paper. It was au fond, my visa to be in the Country. Small print anyone?
NEXT BRILLIANT IDEA
Go to Brazil.
As irony would have it, I met the Barista Trainer of my old boss in Australia, as I scoured Santiago for specialty coffee shops. One coffee nerding out session later, all the jobs are handed to me on a silver platter.
Then not a single one of them come through.
Surely, Brazil was the next Country calling my soul into its open arms.
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NEW PLAN
Wait ten days for Clara to arrive from Argentina to Chile- where I'm currently residing at her sister's place, and Carnival, reunion with Brazilian-Aussie mates, and all the Bahias have got our names written all over em!
This time, I make sure to cross all my T's and dot all my I's. Starting with all the embassies: US, Brazilian, Ethiopian, Chinese, and so forth, I am diligent about gathering all the facts - onward journeys, visas, and so forth. I come to find no visa is necessary to enter Brazil.
Fantastic.
Clara arrives to Chile.
Clara departs for Brazil. I wish her bon voyage as I'll be seeing her in a few shy hours.
THE NEXT DAY
I arrive to the airport, early, stoked. When I finally get to the front of the line, I'm asked to see my visa. You've got to be fucking kidding me. I inform her- in my sternest Spanish - that I was told no visa was required, and to let me board already. With sense of urgency exploding from her being, she goes and has a chat with some work mates, goes and takes a phone call a few desks down, gets a compliment on her nails, eventually making her way back to me, only to sit down and carry on another chat with new work mates. About ten minutes and four phone calls later, her newly done nails pop my travel bubble and again, the words "you will not be traveling today," hit me like a semi, because this time, I needed a visa. I sprinted like a cheetah from one side of the airport to the other in search of a computer. Again, Australian cell phone service serving no purpose.
I find a 1914 Dell Computer, the size of France, and google travel visas for Brazil. I buy the first 'visa' that pops up. Four hundred dollars later, uncertain what I've just purchased, I'm sprinting back to miss thang with some arbitrary file printed off- essentially the next steps I needed to complete acquire a proper visa. Looks like it was time to pull out the dumb Gringa card, because after all, I had already earned it, from the beginning.
"You missed your flight," she whistles. Naturally. I listen as she directs me to two gents that will be able to drum up solutions for my current situation. "Repurchase your connecting flights, it's that easy," they sing. Since I'm already on a spending spree, I concur. But first, I coerce them to review my Visa to ensure, this time, I'll be able to board my flight. They assure me I've got it right this time, and they send me on my way.
I hail a cab only to be returning eight hours later. Stress oozes out of me, the thought of punching someone in the face, tickling my prefrontal cortex. Luckily, I don't. En-route back to my mate's house, all I can do is pray that the keys I attempted to jimmy under the door, are still there. Alelujah! They greet me with shiny silver smiles. Note to self, you should never become a robber. Cue overindulging in the stress related consumption of chocolate, dulce de leche by the spoon full and a substantial amount of wine into the body. That should do the trick.
EIGHT HOURS LATER
It's three am. I'm sick as a dog, hungover on chocolate, wine and dulce from the previous bad decision of hours apassed. Not to mention, I've slept two hours, and that's rounding up. I hail a cab. I want to die. Old mate taxi is sketchy. For the first time, I think I may actually die, as my new found familiarity with the house to airport route rings no recognition. I bid farewell to my life.
Looks like it's not my time to knock off just yet. I arrive at the airport and pass my first check point sans hassle. All excitement contained, as I still have a ways to go.
I plop down, heavy and sleepy at my gate, anxiously waiting to board my flight to Sao Paulo. I watch as a flight attendant makes her rounds, as a ticket pre-check. My eyes follow her, transfixed, and she determinedly winds through the rows of consecutive passengers, approaching each for said document. She stands before me. "Visa?" she requests. I carefully dig out my veiled Visa and present it to her. Her gruff tone, heavy with skepticism, as she questions the legitimacy of my document. I gave her the footnotes of yesterdays interaction with the gents of the airline, assuring her everything was OK. Clearly it was just as much "too early," as it was for me, as it was for her, as she turned on her heel, grumbling under her breath. I board the plane. My translucent paper extracted from my possession.
FOUR HOURS LATER
I'm feelin fancy, as we roll up onto the tarmac in Sao Paulo. I've got THE water bottle and everything. All the hustle thoroughly worth it in this moment of triumph.
Portuguese floats through the air as the organized chaos of customs attempts to assemble us into single file lines. Breast puffed, cocky as a peacock in heat, I cue up. The customs homem (man) greets me, extending his hand for collection of my documents. I audaciously hand them over. His brow furrows as he stares a bit too long at my "visa." "Wait here," he says, "I don't speak much English." Outwardly keeping my cool, I a wave of dismay cloaks my body.
A few moments later, the man returns, directing me to wait outside what looks like a holding room. I hold my breath as two police men approach me from inside the holding room. They have my documents. They ask no questions. A third man walks up. He motions for me to follow him. The panic that had a strong hold on my earlier, slowly trickled away, as I was escorted through the Airport. For a moment, I thought to myself, that perhaps, this is how things rolled in Brazil, escorting you to connecting flights? My escortee's shout pulled me out of my daydream. I couldn't sift through the Portuguese quick enough to understand what he was saying. Clearly, this was no escort service.
We arrived to a gate. I looked up. "SANTIAGO, CHILE," read the board. He pointed at a seat. I took his instruction and sat. A gorda (pleasantly plump) middle aged woman walked up. She had a warm disposition about her and a smile in her eyes. I was beyond defeated at this point, and seeing an inviting face such as hers was a hug to my soul. I melted further into the chair, as my tenacious goal slipped further and further away, like losing something underwater, elusively close, and yet, unattainable. Finally, she spoke to me, "do you know what is going on?" "I'm catchin on quick," I thought to myself, and what came out was a giant "no." Miss Gorda was the last line of defense. It was over. I was to be sent back to Santiago because to enter Brazil, even momentarily, a visa was required, and a visa that was completely processed, unlike mine.
I had no words.
I shed one tear, a tear of defeat, as she led me down the aisle of the airplane, seat picked out and all. I settled in, knowing in a span of ten hours, I successfully made half of my destination, and even more successfully managed to find my way back to Chile. Then it occurred to me, I didn't have my translucent visa for Chile any longer....
Too soon. I passed out.
CHILE ROUND TWO
I wake up to the shuffling of passengers collecting their overhead luggage, as a rubbed the grogginess out of my eyes. Crazy to think it was only 11 AM and I'd already gotten kicked out of one Country, and well on my way to returning to another. I grab my backpack and lug it onto my back. Like clockwork, I take my place in the customs cue, with no energy left to ad-lib any story. "Hola. Papeles?" says the kind man behind the desk. At this point, my fluency is back, all humility gone, I tell him I've been kicked out of Brazil, and I was just in Chile this morning. They took my paper when I left. We play word hacky-sack for quite some time, as Spanish turns to Spaniglish, and language turns to laughter and whaddya know, I'm brought back to the cops outside another holding office.
Two cops exit and ask me what's going on- "que paso?" After I inform them I was kicked out Brazil and there's no choice but to let me back into Chile-because I was just here- they send me back to the chipper customs officer. He must not have caught on to the severity, or even half of what I told him just occurred, as when I came forth again to rehash the same story, his eyes bulged straight out of his head, like a deer in the headlights, followed by a deep belly laugh. Actually, I think there was a repeated offense of laughter. Yeah, that sounds more like it. I didn't even have the energy to cry, so I joined him in laughter. Why not? I guess I had a good story at this point, and I still had my water bottle, proof that I was indeed in Brazil. It had to count for something. After he shot the shit at me for a few minutes, throwing out some cheeky lines, informing me of how much that would suck (you think?), how I'm trouble, and so on, he ended up letting me back into the country.
But he never gave me the translucent slip.
I realize this two days later as I'm checking into a hostel after another fatal attempt to get to Brazil.
Oh, you want that story too?
TRAIN STATION
This itch won't go away, I've got to get to Brazil. Clara is on day number two Carnival time, keeping me well informed of all that I should be a part of: dancing in the streets with locals, bright feathers and meticulously ornate masks adorning bronzed bodies, decorated in bold costumes, flaunting bare skin.
Somehow, I arrvied at the train station. I was bound and determined to find the Brazilian Embassy and get my visa sorted. Not having a relevant mobile with wifi made things quite difficult. It was time to get creative, yet again. I drew the parallel in my mind that I should be scouting for the oldest looking human in my midst. Why? Because they would obviously be the most knowledgeable- they've been around the longest. I b line towards the most elderly candidate I can find. I ask him where the embassy is located, even providing him the name of the town. He stares blankly. I repeat my question, jumbling the order of the words this time, thinking maybe it'll hit home. Blank stares. A woman approaches me and asks what I'm looking for, as I may have just found the most elderly deaf man in the room.
I repeat. She tells me to tag along with her, we are headed in the same direction. About ten minutes into our journey, she tells me she thought I was Latin, and fluent, but now that we've had more time to converse, she hears the nuances that tell her just the opposite. Perhaps that's why old man withers didn't know a lick of what I was saying. We arrive at the Embassy, having gotten lost twice in the process, to the front desk man informing us the Embassy is closed for the public for the day. Marta, my new amiga, gives them the story, her Chileano origins giving us a big one up in this pickle. Finally.
They let us through. The next lady in charge listens intently as we explain what happened, and what we need. She takes us aside at the conclusion of the story, as Marta whispers clandestinely "what can you do to help us?" The woman says that if we arrive back tomorrow with newly purchased tickets (that would be six total tickets purchased to Brazil), and a proper photo, we would be able to get me there in ten days, fingers crossed. Mind you, Clara, and the rest of our mates would be leaving four days after I would arrive, based off of our original plans. At this rate, I didn't even know if I had any money left, after buying all these wasted tickets. We part ways until tomorrow. Maybe.
Marta and I make our way back to my mate's place, as I had to get my things and suss out a new arrangement as they were headed out of town. I was planning to stay at a hostel when Marta offered her place to me. I agreed. We hustled back to pack my things, and took two cabs and a bus to lord knows where. In the midst of this transition, her daughter ended up joining forces with us. As we headed back to Marta's for dinner, she looked at my broken down soul and made a swift left. Liquor store. She was kind AND wise. Wine and beer hugged to our chests, we pushed on to get home. We talked and laughed over my travel stories as Marta finally got the entire tale. I drank the bottle of wine.
As dinner came to a close, I was cashed. My brain was fried from translating Spanish to English and speaking Spanish all day, not to mention the impromptu adventures of the last two days. I rang Clara. We talked things over and I decided I was going to have to pull out. It was a sad moment, and quite frankly, I had to take a logical stance on the matter and factor in my lack of funds, which now would have gotten me no further than a day in Brazil. It was also becoming quite clear that the Universe was trying to tell me it wasn't the right time to go-it only took three failed attempts to get this through my thick and stubborn skull.
URUGUAY
Marta and Valentina pack me up and take me to my hostel. I decided I will spend a few days actually enjoying my time here in Chile. It's been well deserved. While out on a run, I decide I will give my friend Martin a call and see if he would like to go on an adventure, as he just recently returned to his home of Uruguay from Australia. Martin is keen. I take a look at dates, and flights, and realize this is a stupid idea. I don't even think I have checked my bank account up to this point, because I know that once I see the facts, my fun is over and it's time to head back to....America...Wisconsin at that.
I check my funds-truly, I don't even know if I do- but after another run, I think to myself, maybe it's time to start back from square one. I call Mom. She tells me to come home but doesn't believe I will come back. She finally understands how I roll. I tell her I will be coming home, but I need a few more days to play before purchasing a ticket.
Then I tell her I may stop in Uruguay first, moreso for reaction sake. I think she punched me in the face via the telephone. It hurt.
And so.
Two days later, drinks had, explorations dabbled in, limbs danced off, mates met, sleep lost, I packed my things, and boarded yet another flight, back, to, America....
To be continued....
Monday, April 18, 2016
co-dependency will kill you
Co-dependency; the inability to wholly and completely rely on yourself, to meet all of your fulfillment needs.
What it is not:
When you part from others (mate, friends, family), you don't find yourself worth, confidence and capabilities plummeting to the ground like a house of cards, questioning your existence on this earth. The difference here is that you WANT these people in your life. You don't NEED them in your life. That's not to say that you have no feelings and are detached from emotional relationships and cannot connect with a human being. It's the exact opposite of that. It's to say that your a fully functioning vessel that can hold your space, your self, your person in your own light, worth and love, knowing that you're a complete person per your own permission and unconditional love. You don't view your self worth based on the attention, gratification, and acceptance from others- reacting to how you're treated in life versus responding.
What it is:
Have you ever thought of why you don't like to be alone?
Why you keep yourself incessantly busy, warding off alone time like the plague?
Have you ever taken a moment to reflect on all the shit - the social bits that fill up a typical day of yours: social interactions, phone conversations, events, KEEPING BUSY FOR BUSY SAKE- yet finding no real fulfillment as you rush from thing to thing...to thing. Maybe because you find your entire self crumpling the moment silence and being come to a cross roads. Uncomfortable feelings bubble up as you wait for that cute guy to text you back, and with each passing moment, your self esteem and mind fabricate a tale of why you suck at life, and NO he doesn't like you.
Because when you're alone in your own being, the walls feel a bit unstable, and the positivity gained through social interactions now drips from your brow, as a new found negativity begins spinning cobwebs in the casing of your mind. Twisting the lies and illusions from the mind with reality. The gut wrenching pain that snake bites your throat, your heart, leaving you confused and short of breath. This, is co-dependency.
Often times, this is an unconscious state of being, one that we don't even realize that we struggle with. It could be because we don't give ourselves the space or time to look at these things. We think that just because we are in a relationship- be it intimate, friends or otherwise- that automatically, we are given the golden token of placing every expectation and pressure onto this person, this relationship- a paradigm we are all duped into thinking is ok- is only a reflection of all the things we do not own up and give to OURSELVES.
Unfortunately, in today's society, we are raised in a way that keeps some part of us always attached, and dependent on someone/something- evident in a parent-child relationships as we age. Dad still paying your rent? Taking your car in for you? Grandma still giving you money for holidays? Ring any bells? We are just a bunch of little kids in big kid clothing, who play a really good game of 'keeping it real,' or so we think.
...until we are greeted by the silence and the inner fears, insecurities, and lack of our own unconditional love. What does this all mean? Are we screwed forever?
Don't fret. It's as simple, and as hard as becoming your own cheerleader. Filling your own tank. Knowing fully and competely who you are, your self worth and not allowing that to sway in the midst of others- reacting to life instead of responding. It's a hard process, one that takes compassion, time, love, and acceptance. But the pay off is immense. You will no longer search for your "missing pieces" in others, projecting your lack onto them, inevitably and subconsciously recreating the same lesson over and over again: find new person, search for your missing pieces within them, placing countless expectations on them, and when they cannot fill them or live up to the above- you damn their existence, and say ciao to the relationship- not realizing it's just your own lacking that is the problem.
We are the only things we can change and have control over. Therefore, the best advice in all regards, is always to look at YOU and change what needs to be changed. Becoming 100% self reliant, loving yourself unconditionally is the most gratifying place to arrive because you are finally whole. The relationships and experiences you will have with this world and the human beings in it will become real, palpable, present. All that will remain is love and complete acceptance.
What it is not:
When you part from others (mate, friends, family), you don't find yourself worth, confidence and capabilities plummeting to the ground like a house of cards, questioning your existence on this earth. The difference here is that you WANT these people in your life. You don't NEED them in your life. That's not to say that you have no feelings and are detached from emotional relationships and cannot connect with a human being. It's the exact opposite of that. It's to say that your a fully functioning vessel that can hold your space, your self, your person in your own light, worth and love, knowing that you're a complete person per your own permission and unconditional love. You don't view your self worth based on the attention, gratification, and acceptance from others- reacting to how you're treated in life versus responding.
What it is:
Have you ever thought of why you don't like to be alone?
Why you keep yourself incessantly busy, warding off alone time like the plague?
Have you ever taken a moment to reflect on all the shit - the social bits that fill up a typical day of yours: social interactions, phone conversations, events, KEEPING BUSY FOR BUSY SAKE- yet finding no real fulfillment as you rush from thing to thing...to thing. Maybe because you find your entire self crumpling the moment silence and being come to a cross roads. Uncomfortable feelings bubble up as you wait for that cute guy to text you back, and with each passing moment, your self esteem and mind fabricate a tale of why you suck at life, and NO he doesn't like you.
Because when you're alone in your own being, the walls feel a bit unstable, and the positivity gained through social interactions now drips from your brow, as a new found negativity begins spinning cobwebs in the casing of your mind. Twisting the lies and illusions from the mind with reality. The gut wrenching pain that snake bites your throat, your heart, leaving you confused and short of breath. This, is co-dependency.
Often times, this is an unconscious state of being, one that we don't even realize that we struggle with. It could be because we don't give ourselves the space or time to look at these things. We think that just because we are in a relationship- be it intimate, friends or otherwise- that automatically, we are given the golden token of placing every expectation and pressure onto this person, this relationship- a paradigm we are all duped into thinking is ok- is only a reflection of all the things we do not own up and give to OURSELVES.
Unfortunately, in today's society, we are raised in a way that keeps some part of us always attached, and dependent on someone/something- evident in a parent-child relationships as we age. Dad still paying your rent? Taking your car in for you? Grandma still giving you money for holidays? Ring any bells? We are just a bunch of little kids in big kid clothing, who play a really good game of 'keeping it real,' or so we think.
...until we are greeted by the silence and the inner fears, insecurities, and lack of our own unconditional love. What does this all mean? Are we screwed forever?
Don't fret. It's as simple, and as hard as becoming your own cheerleader. Filling your own tank. Knowing fully and competely who you are, your self worth and not allowing that to sway in the midst of others- reacting to life instead of responding. It's a hard process, one that takes compassion, time, love, and acceptance. But the pay off is immense. You will no longer search for your "missing pieces" in others, projecting your lack onto them, inevitably and subconsciously recreating the same lesson over and over again: find new person, search for your missing pieces within them, placing countless expectations on them, and when they cannot fill them or live up to the above- you damn their existence, and say ciao to the relationship- not realizing it's just your own lacking that is the problem.
We are the only things we can change and have control over. Therefore, the best advice in all regards, is always to look at YOU and change what needs to be changed. Becoming 100% self reliant, loving yourself unconditionally is the most gratifying place to arrive because you are finally whole. The relationships and experiences you will have with this world and the human beings in it will become real, palpable, present. All that will remain is love and complete acceptance.
Thursday, March 24, 2016
the lack of integration
Have you ever wondered why the same shit continues to bubble up, smacking you in the face-year after year. The tickle of the same old patterns tripping you up in exactly the same ways they always have and still you don't "understand why?" A lot of the time, these patterns are unconscious, and so, continually get swept under the veil of 'the-shit-we-don't-want-to-look-at-because-it's-uncomfortable.' Sound familiar?
We wear this veil thinking it will serve our greater good, sacred shitless of what would happen dare we take it off. Not for one second do we think about WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF WE WOULD TAKE IT OFF! It's the same concept, just said under a different light and perspective. This slight-of-hand in the delivery of information to our own selves is where the magic happens; we get out of the way of ourselves.
We have been in the way of ourselves our entire lives. This stings. In a society where excuses and lack of personal responsibility are elusive, this is a HUGE TRIGGER to your shit. This is where I do not apologize. We give our power and control away in ways we don't even understand, but it is in the discomforts of seeing our shit arise, that we can deal with it, look at it, and INTEGRATE what it is that we are consciously/subconsciously rejecting from our authentic self. This integrative process is the pulling of the plug in the energies of our triggers. Once what is rejected from our authentic self is indeed interwoven into the trappings of our authenticity, we no longer will become provoked by triggers that are actually neutral and meaningless 'things' until our placed definition and meaning onto them calls these 'mattered things' into our mental focus. Just like inertia, our energy will continue to feed this 'mattered business,' a path known to us consciously or subconsciously.
This is why we keep things hidden-IT HURTS and takes accountability, and WORK to do something about our discomforts. If we allowed all of these hidden pieces, these unintegrated pieces of us to flow freely into the open gates of our consciousness, we would drown in their wake. We are essentially a bunch of adult children, trying to integrate what was cut off from our authenticity, per imprinting and felt-perception, at a young age. During the natural progression from baby to now-self, it all started with emotions, and ends in emotions. First, we learned to cry and express through emotions. The next phase ensue happened when we reached the milestone of seven years of age, it was time to grow up- cue the mental capacity development through education. The final phase hits at puberty. We are in the physical development of ourself. However, there is no interrogation of these stages. It's almost as though we stop one thing to carry onto the next thing, and once we hit adulthood, somewhere in there, we are like fish out of water in the understanding of our emotional selves- given up somewhere back there.
This veil is just that, a facade we have used to grow up to what is acceptable in our adult human suit, but underneath there is a land waiting to be explored. Only when we step outside of the veil that keeps our darkness safe from the light - hides ourselves from ourselves- keeps us stuck - continues the cycle of pain and unsurving paradigms alive - only then, are we able to begin the integration process into an emotionally complete, triggerless, integrated adult human, being, in this world.
We wear this veil thinking it will serve our greater good, sacred shitless of what would happen dare we take it off. Not for one second do we think about WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF WE WOULD TAKE IT OFF! It's the same concept, just said under a different light and perspective. This slight-of-hand in the delivery of information to our own selves is where the magic happens; we get out of the way of ourselves.
We have been in the way of ourselves our entire lives. This stings. In a society where excuses and lack of personal responsibility are elusive, this is a HUGE TRIGGER to your shit. This is where I do not apologize. We give our power and control away in ways we don't even understand, but it is in the discomforts of seeing our shit arise, that we can deal with it, look at it, and INTEGRATE what it is that we are consciously/subconsciously rejecting from our authentic self. This integrative process is the pulling of the plug in the energies of our triggers. Once what is rejected from our authentic self is indeed interwoven into the trappings of our authenticity, we no longer will become provoked by triggers that are actually neutral and meaningless 'things' until our placed definition and meaning onto them calls these 'mattered things' into our mental focus. Just like inertia, our energy will continue to feed this 'mattered business,' a path known to us consciously or subconsciously.
This is why we keep things hidden-IT HURTS and takes accountability, and WORK to do something about our discomforts. If we allowed all of these hidden pieces, these unintegrated pieces of us to flow freely into the open gates of our consciousness, we would drown in their wake. We are essentially a bunch of adult children, trying to integrate what was cut off from our authenticity, per imprinting and felt-perception, at a young age. During the natural progression from baby to now-self, it all started with emotions, and ends in emotions. First, we learned to cry and express through emotions. The next phase ensue happened when we reached the milestone of seven years of age, it was time to grow up- cue the mental capacity development through education. The final phase hits at puberty. We are in the physical development of ourself. However, there is no interrogation of these stages. It's almost as though we stop one thing to carry onto the next thing, and once we hit adulthood, somewhere in there, we are like fish out of water in the understanding of our emotional selves- given up somewhere back there.
This veil is just that, a facade we have used to grow up to what is acceptable in our adult human suit, but underneath there is a land waiting to be explored. Only when we step outside of the veil that keeps our darkness safe from the light - hides ourselves from ourselves- keeps us stuck - continues the cycle of pain and unsurving paradigms alive - only then, are we able to begin the integration process into an emotionally complete, triggerless, integrated adult human, being, in this world.
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Because I'm Finally Ready to Show Up Naked to the Party.
I'm curious.
What is it about saying our truth that scares the living shit out of us?
I guess I shouldn't jump to conclusions and pair the general public with my own insecurities and fear of standing in my own power, from brain, to heart to communication of it all. As it always does, the perfect timing has shown up and painfully punched me in the face with all that no longer works for me- leaving me bloody, and bruised, confusedly gasping for air. Might I add, how all I thought was keeping me safe and protected from the big, bad world of feelings and vulnerability was frankly, the cause of my self-imposed suffering.
Is it the fear or rejection?
The fear of vulnerability?
The fear of what I've always wanted taking root and exploding my heart and soul into stardust?
Perhaps it's being too much or saying too much- letting all those weird ass things we know about ourselves- and don't accept- show up and be seen and- inevitably- judged?
For me, it's all of the above. Namely, I'm speaking to this topic in terms of myself in a relationship, as this is the only time when I'm confronted face-to-face as all my shit bubbles up, like the ugliest mermaid devil, as she lurks from deep in the sea of my soul,trying to take me captive as yet another victim in this world of victims and excuses. Why? Frankly, it's because we project outwardly onto one another, mirroring what it is we need to find/work on in our own selves. and it's hard to stomach and own that IT'S US AND NOT THEM.We can thank them for allowing them to show us what we reject in our own selves, and being that bigger than life mirror we smashed into a million pieces one day long ago when we found it. For everything we see in others, is simply a projection of what is going on, or what we are lacking in our own selves, hence our outward search party.
Over the years of hurt and pain, and shitty ass socialization from a young age- being taught to toughen up, to suck it up- as outward affection and vulnerability wasn't something that was seen as a high esteem in my family- I learned quickly how to build walls. Big, fat cement walls, guarding me like rivers to the castle of my soul that countless numbers of people have waited outside of, waiting for me to show up and let them in, yet I never had. Fast forward to my grown up life, and I've found it next to impossible, and scary as fuck to show outward affection, as I've clearly been successful at cutting off the flow of my feminine energy, and even the permission to grant myself to be that tender femininity that I so long for- because it is easier not to feel: good, bad, or indifferent as those feelings resonated with weakness and neediness in my mind. To make matters even worse, I haven't been able to see my own behaviors clearly until just recently when I woke up to this whole paradigm I've woven myself into and how, naturally, it's no longer working (but has it ever?).
As radically as I've become conscious to this new found awareness into the TRUTH of who I REALLY am (still learning, fucking hell, it never ends), an interesting parallel came into mind while running through the depths of the forest the other day, and strangely, I found clarity- punny, right? A longing to be in the ocean came forth, not an outlandish pulse to come over me, for it's a constant desire, so I chose to look at it with a microscope as big as my consciousness and bring what the truth forward of whatever that meant. What showed up is my age old connection to water, ironically,figuratively, the same connection I cut off with my own self from my femininity and being in general. The depth, the vastness, the changing currents, the feelings, the pain, the emptiness, the fulfillment, the permission to be, the struggles, the happiness, the fucking every thing that makes me me, yeah all that shit that's in the natural flow of life, I cut off. I finally could put my finger on the reasons the presence of the ocean can unravel me to tears, insecurities, and fears, a power not a single soul has over me. I woke up to the oceans tangible source of strength, power, mysteries, and vacant spaces before I came into this world heck, I dove into. And in the same way that I woke to the ocean, I woke to my soul and the clarity surrounding the shackles I placed on myself forbidding my self to feel life. I was running with that same agony to the ocean TO FEEL- to drown myself in all that made the ocean, the ocean, not seeing the ocean was inside of me.
And so this relationship-hide-myself-in-myself-facade-bullshit would repeat itself as follows: I would let someone into my life, letting them drink from my bright and shinning soul, then the wide-eyed moment would come where I subconsciously or consciously made the decision that I LIKED this person, and hell, the army of walls would set up shop, draping myself behind the prison of my soul, as if on point. Being was no longer in the drivers seat; it was all human. Human and thinking. As the mind is notorious for, I would let it suck me into the over-analyzation of everything, analyzing me right out of the relationship. Whaddya know? What I didn't understand was that I was projecting all my inner wounds and unhealed pains onto my partner and the relationship we had just began to create, digging a grave for the inevitable death of the ensuing relationship. Enmeshed with the past, the infant flame stoked, was suffocated into nonexistence almost as quickly as it came to life.
My curiosity finally came into play when, thank god, one not so hot moment in my life finally served as the catalyst to where I've now taken a high beam floodlight into what behaviors and actions I've been guilty of all along, AND NEVER ADDRESSED. Frankly, it scares the shit out of me to even be thinking I'll post this publicly, but in some riveting way, saying those words is like handing over bags of burdened energy, allowing them to soar freely on the wings of some magnificent bird, high into the skies of liberation. Is this that "shinning light on the dark parts of ourselves" that I read about far too often and never actually exercise, understood or internalized.......?? I think I'm on to something here....
I'm finally ready to show up naked to the party. I want all of me seen. If I'm going to get hurt, it may as well be because I showed up fully and completely, dripping, naked, RAW and scared shitless. I've realized I've always been waiting for permission in my life: permission to be me, permission to be weird, permission to be the girl with the crazy hair and the bright pants, permission to be soft and maybe not try so hard, permission to be good enough and fill up my own damn tank, permission to open up EVEN FURTHER when what I want most is to close and run away. Permission not to run away, from me, because I need me; more than anyone else needs me. Only now have I been able to touch that pain and realize I've projected never being enough onto others because I wasn't enough in my own eyes. No validation I sought out, love, acceptance, opportunity ORRRRRRRRRRRR, etc. could make me feel anymore fulfilled- I was looking in all the wrong places- because I didn't give myself permission to feel enough in my own self. I'm understanding what it means to breathe through the pain and the suffering which is ultimately an illusion and not real.
What is it about saying our truth that scares the living shit out of us?
I guess I shouldn't jump to conclusions and pair the general public with my own insecurities and fear of standing in my own power, from brain, to heart to communication of it all. As it always does, the perfect timing has shown up and painfully punched me in the face with all that no longer works for me- leaving me bloody, and bruised, confusedly gasping for air. Might I add, how all I thought was keeping me safe and protected from the big, bad world of feelings and vulnerability was frankly, the cause of my self-imposed suffering.
Is it the fear or rejection?
The fear of vulnerability?
The fear of what I've always wanted taking root and exploding my heart and soul into stardust?
Perhaps it's being too much or saying too much- letting all those weird ass things we know about ourselves- and don't accept- show up and be seen and- inevitably- judged?
For me, it's all of the above. Namely, I'm speaking to this topic in terms of myself in a relationship, as this is the only time when I'm confronted face-to-face as all my shit bubbles up, like the ugliest mermaid devil, as she lurks from deep in the sea of my soul,trying to take me captive as yet another victim in this world of victims and excuses. Why? Frankly, it's because we project outwardly onto one another, mirroring what it is we need to find/work on in our own selves. and it's hard to stomach and own that IT'S US AND NOT THEM.We can thank them for allowing them to show us what we reject in our own selves, and being that bigger than life mirror we smashed into a million pieces one day long ago when we found it. For everything we see in others, is simply a projection of what is going on, or what we are lacking in our own selves, hence our outward search party.
Over the years of hurt and pain, and shitty ass socialization from a young age- being taught to toughen up, to suck it up- as outward affection and vulnerability wasn't something that was seen as a high esteem in my family- I learned quickly how to build walls. Big, fat cement walls, guarding me like rivers to the castle of my soul that countless numbers of people have waited outside of, waiting for me to show up and let them in, yet I never had. Fast forward to my grown up life, and I've found it next to impossible, and scary as fuck to show outward affection, as I've clearly been successful at cutting off the flow of my feminine energy, and even the permission to grant myself to be that tender femininity that I so long for- because it is easier not to feel: good, bad, or indifferent as those feelings resonated with weakness and neediness in my mind. To make matters even worse, I haven't been able to see my own behaviors clearly until just recently when I woke up to this whole paradigm I've woven myself into and how, naturally, it's no longer working (but has it ever?).
As radically as I've become conscious to this new found awareness into the TRUTH of who I REALLY am (still learning, fucking hell, it never ends), an interesting parallel came into mind while running through the depths of the forest the other day, and strangely, I found clarity- punny, right? A longing to be in the ocean came forth, not an outlandish pulse to come over me, for it's a constant desire, so I chose to look at it with a microscope as big as my consciousness and bring what the truth forward of whatever that meant. What showed up is my age old connection to water, ironically,figuratively, the same connection I cut off with my own self from my femininity and being in general. The depth, the vastness, the changing currents, the feelings, the pain, the emptiness, the fulfillment, the permission to be, the struggles, the happiness, the fucking every thing that makes me me, yeah all that shit that's in the natural flow of life, I cut off. I finally could put my finger on the reasons the presence of the ocean can unravel me to tears, insecurities, and fears, a power not a single soul has over me. I woke up to the oceans tangible source of strength, power, mysteries, and vacant spaces before I came into this world heck, I dove into. And in the same way that I woke to the ocean, I woke to my soul and the clarity surrounding the shackles I placed on myself forbidding my self to feel life. I was running with that same agony to the ocean TO FEEL- to drown myself in all that made the ocean, the ocean, not seeing the ocean was inside of me.
And so this relationship-hide-myself-in-myself-facade-bullshit would repeat itself as follows: I would let someone into my life, letting them drink from my bright and shinning soul, then the wide-eyed moment would come where I subconsciously or consciously made the decision that I LIKED this person, and hell, the army of walls would set up shop, draping myself behind the prison of my soul, as if on point. Being was no longer in the drivers seat; it was all human. Human and thinking. As the mind is notorious for, I would let it suck me into the over-analyzation of everything, analyzing me right out of the relationship. Whaddya know? What I didn't understand was that I was projecting all my inner wounds and unhealed pains onto my partner and the relationship we had just began to create, digging a grave for the inevitable death of the ensuing relationship. Enmeshed with the past, the infant flame stoked, was suffocated into nonexistence almost as quickly as it came to life.
My curiosity finally came into play when, thank god, one not so hot moment in my life finally served as the catalyst to where I've now taken a high beam floodlight into what behaviors and actions I've been guilty of all along, AND NEVER ADDRESSED. Frankly, it scares the shit out of me to even be thinking I'll post this publicly, but in some riveting way, saying those words is like handing over bags of burdened energy, allowing them to soar freely on the wings of some magnificent bird, high into the skies of liberation. Is this that "shinning light on the dark parts of ourselves" that I read about far too often and never actually exercise, understood or internalized.......?? I think I'm on to something here....
I'm finally ready to show up naked to the party. I want all of me seen. If I'm going to get hurt, it may as well be because I showed up fully and completely, dripping, naked, RAW and scared shitless. I've realized I've always been waiting for permission in my life: permission to be me, permission to be weird, permission to be the girl with the crazy hair and the bright pants, permission to be soft and maybe not try so hard, permission to be good enough and fill up my own damn tank, permission to open up EVEN FURTHER when what I want most is to close and run away. Permission not to run away, from me, because I need me; more than anyone else needs me. Only now have I been able to touch that pain and realize I've projected never being enough onto others because I wasn't enough in my own eyes. No validation I sought out, love, acceptance, opportunity ORRRRRRRRRRRR, etc. could make me feel anymore fulfilled- I was looking in all the wrong places- because I didn't give myself permission to feel enough in my own self. I'm understanding what it means to breathe through the pain and the suffering which is ultimately an illusion and not real.
Monday, March 14, 2016
the darkness
“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”
― Martin Luther King Jr., A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches
― Martin Luther King Jr., A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
the pain in hiding the rough edges
I've had some shitty awareness come about
over the last few weeks.
Seeing a paradigm I thought I had transcended,
time ago.
It's the fear of letting someone see the full me,
all the cracks,
the missing pieces,
the jagged edges, and
the deep, penetrating bits.
In the ordinary relationship,
it hides its borish head.
But the time comes when
deeper intimacy is in tow,
and up the walls come.
The real me hides behind the safe topics,
the shallow bubbles, showing truth if
ears piqued hard enough. Miss a beat,
and you see nothing more than surface.
This has only come into bird's eye view
as yet again, another relationship was
trying to take root smacked me in the face
with " I don't see a future in this."
My usual response was to look at all the
things I fucked up on. Today, it's different.
It's all of the things I didn't let come out,
the person I didn't let shine after the
flood gates were opened.
And now I see it clearly. Even meditation
brought it into the foreground in the last weeks,
where I was closing up, what I wanted to change,
and being too scared and thinking too hard in what
direction, what magic way to change it. Instead of
just doing it.
I've always thought there had to be some huge earth quake
as the relationship rumbles into something deeper,
an understanding and a communication that only those
two souls comprehend. And yet, I'm seeing that is
not the case at all. I was waiting for a lightbulb to
turn on, that was already on. I was waiting for signs
to show, that were already there. I was looking for
validation when validation was already there, in self.
I was projecting all of the things I did not want, with
acute awareness of trying to do exactly not that. Now,
seeing clearly, perched from up here, I see that what is
hopefully still in front of me, is still in front of me.
That everything that I want, is not only inside me,
but in the man that finally has put an end to this
paradigm by helping me to shine light upon it.
This doesn't mean it hurts any less. The realization
that I always realize things too late. Or that, he was
just simply waiting for me to show up. All of me.
The me that captivated him in the beginning. That me.
The weird one who began to take things too sensitively
and thought it was best to start locking those misfit
pieces away. He was waiting for that to show up.
I could see the shift. I felt it, in my soul, each little
gravitational pull away. And right in time as my own brain,
and soul processes what things I needed to work on in my
relationship with him. Coincidence? I hope so...
And so I see what I want, and where I went wrong.
Where the rough edges I was trying so hard to
suffocate needed light and space to breathe,
in the light and space we were creating together.
Each one of us, Whole as we are.
The projections, as I tried to make too much sense
of unimportant happenings were the same
projections where I found the clarity of what
was.
over the last few weeks.
Seeing a paradigm I thought I had transcended,
time ago.
It's the fear of letting someone see the full me,
all the cracks,
the missing pieces,
the jagged edges, and
the deep, penetrating bits.
In the ordinary relationship,
it hides its borish head.
But the time comes when
deeper intimacy is in tow,
and up the walls come.
The real me hides behind the safe topics,
the shallow bubbles, showing truth if
ears piqued hard enough. Miss a beat,
and you see nothing more than surface.
This has only come into bird's eye view
as yet again, another relationship was
trying to take root smacked me in the face
with " I don't see a future in this."
My usual response was to look at all the
things I fucked up on. Today, it's different.
It's all of the things I didn't let come out,
the person I didn't let shine after the
flood gates were opened.
And now I see it clearly. Even meditation
brought it into the foreground in the last weeks,
where I was closing up, what I wanted to change,
and being too scared and thinking too hard in what
direction, what magic way to change it. Instead of
just doing it.
I've always thought there had to be some huge earth quake
as the relationship rumbles into something deeper,
an understanding and a communication that only those
two souls comprehend. And yet, I'm seeing that is
not the case at all. I was waiting for a lightbulb to
turn on, that was already on. I was waiting for signs
to show, that were already there. I was looking for
validation when validation was already there, in self.
I was projecting all of the things I did not want, with
acute awareness of trying to do exactly not that. Now,
seeing clearly, perched from up here, I see that what is
hopefully still in front of me, is still in front of me.
That everything that I want, is not only inside me,
but in the man that finally has put an end to this
paradigm by helping me to shine light upon it.
This doesn't mean it hurts any less. The realization
that I always realize things too late. Or that, he was
just simply waiting for me to show up. All of me.
The me that captivated him in the beginning. That me.
The weird one who began to take things too sensitively
and thought it was best to start locking those misfit
pieces away. He was waiting for that to show up.
I could see the shift. I felt it, in my soul, each little
gravitational pull away. And right in time as my own brain,
and soul processes what things I needed to work on in my
relationship with him. Coincidence? I hope so...
And so I see what I want, and where I went wrong.
Where the rough edges I was trying so hard to
suffocate needed light and space to breathe,
in the light and space we were creating together.
Each one of us, Whole as we are.
The projections, as I tried to make too much sense
of unimportant happenings were the same
projections where I found the clarity of what
was.
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