512

Tomorrow is 512

512
is someone I've loved and
will always love birthday
an Indian purse
and postcards from far away
are jewels he's left behind for me

512
is a home
where a family lives
where someone significant
wrote music and
made love to me
in an attic room

512
is my home
my sanctuary
my studio
my place
my nest

A snapshot: In my element

I realized upon walking into my apartment this evening, that I am IN my ELEMENT. Suitcase in the hallway. Clean laundry from last week all over the floor covering my yoga mat. My shower and bathroom hasn't had a really thorough cleaning for...well I can't remember. And my bed, my bed was the best visual--totally destroyed, a big pile of sheet and comforter, half on my bed half off my bed and the pillows looked like a tornado had taken them and spun them to all sides of the bed.

I definitely have been in my element, or maybe NOT HOME ever.  My wind down consists of Facebook, some journaling and a phone call when I can spare the "me" time after being out from 8 am until 9 PM, starving, and unsure of where all my 200 dollars of groceries went in the last 5 days--well I've got carrots, swiss chard, cereal, veggie dogs and some really ripe bananas. I get caught up in catching up with my friend who lives in NY and forget to eat dinner--it's now 10:30 at night...that's how the story goes. And I was gone last weekend, the weekend before that, and this next weekend I'll be in NY. I'm in my element.

I don't know what day it is. I only know what I feel like moment to moment. I had a phone call with an ex-boyfriend who is now my dear friend (so maybe I should just refer to him as my friend, but I like throwing the history in) and he was like "Dating anyone?" And I laughed, "No time for sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll." At least when it's not worth it. He laughed. I laughed, and realized that I eat, sleep, work/write, practice yoga, teach yoga, and do yoga homework. I'm super happy with that, and have no tears coming out of my eyes because I don't have a body next to me at night or a hand to hold when I'm walking down the street. Yes, of course, it would be magnificent, but I want it to be right, I want to be with someone because of the right reasons. I'm done with this whole "experience" thing. I've had my fair share of "experiences" and I truly love my life right now.

I love how the sun comes in through my windows every morning. I love walking to work. Walking the mile long commute through the warehouse district to yoga. I love how I feel almost every single day, and when I don't,  I love the fact that I can admit to myself that I'm not "liking something." I'm in my element.

The laundry on my floor, the funny face and disheveled hair, all of that is a sign of me being "in" the life.   I clean 45 minutes before my students come over. That is my incentive. I open mail when I decide to turn on the tv and then don't watch the show because I'm opening mail and talking to someone on IM at the same time. I'm horrible about doing stuff all at the same time, but it makes me feel me.

Some people would say "You must just be stressed out if your home is a mess, and you don't have groceries?" Actually, a perfectly tidy apartment and full fridge, usually means I'm having students over, or I'm going on a long trip (minus the food), or I just decided that I should clean and take a day off from the world. Mind you, I can't stand a dirty kitchen, so that is always clean no matter what.

I'm in my element. I don't want to clean. I want to write, and now I want to sleep--5:30 comes way too fast.

Wabash Bridge at Midnight

The train halted at Grand tonight. I was antsy. I got out and walked the extra 10 minutes. Felt the cold Chicago wind ripple my hair across my face. Saw the blue tower on the Wrigley building lit up. And walked my large cowboy booted steps past the monstrous Trump towers. The city was quiet. Wacker Drive, bustling with taxis and the speed of rush hour traffic was a distant hum of a memory--it was a playground for hopscotch and a jaywalking stroll. I lingered on the Wabash Bridge, looking down at the ripples of the Chicago River, my heart beating to a tune still in my head from the story-telling concert I had just spent the evening with. A sigh came out and blended into to the echo of my wooden soles and the gentle water breeze--a sigh of heartache from love. A sigh of puzzlement from the distance travelled with these two legs of mine over pavement, sand, rock and whatever else my soles have landed on by themselves, on their own. Yet, in the quiet stillness of the empty streets the bridge that I crossed over felt like a metaphor. The love we give and live with is a bridge toward the unknown, the mystery, and the pain that comes with the crossing, the traveling is one that all travelers feel. There is no plan to this adventure. There are only bridges that are yet to be built and stories to be shared about the bridges to islands yet to be discovered. I paused at  the BMW motorcycle parked outside the Swissotel and secretly wanted to jump on it. Feel the road. Feel the wind. Feel the thrill of connecting to the rush of motion. The Taxi sign pointed to an empty lane. The steps down to the park below echoed under my footstpes. No dogs in the park. The doorman smoking a cigarrette outside one of the buildings nods in surprise as I pass by in my hooded jacket with flying strands of blonde hair dancing around my face. Hands gently swaying. I glance around me, wondering why I do not feel scared at this hour. And I laugh as I remind myself that that was a silly thought. I shimmy through the revolving door. Hello to the night doorman. A big black guy, whom I always feel happy to see. I press 5 on the elevator. My apt opens to the remains of my dinner--sweet potatoes and wild rice. The floor is covered with the laundry I was about to do and underneath it lies several yoga mats waiting expectantly for their next students. Washing my face I notice I a tear stained cheek. I feel my heart. It knows. It knows what the tear said. I look in the mirror my eyes hold my gaze. I ponder my reflection, and receive the human emotion of the moment. Sigh. Life travels just as I watched the river underneath a wooden planked bridge. As cliched as this sounds, I never would have expected the distance that my heart has traveled, nor have wanted anything to be any other way. Acceptance, it's what I look for in the mirror before I turn off the light. I accept what is now, and know that it is enough to just be me.

OH MY GOODNESS

My mom makes the best apple crisp!

The space between the words

As a writer, I am always perplexed and shocked when I start typing. The fear that hangs before the first letter appearing in front of my eyes is unexplainable. It's like I'm afraid of looking at what I'm capable of creating. Afraid of what I might find. And underneath that afraid of what energetic reaction may be created from my voice. 

My voice is cleaner more truthful and more visible when written. My heart more open and more available when indented into the screen or a piece of paper. My words, my soul, my energy more visible in what I pour out of my finger tips. My vulnerability front and center spotlighted.

So I hang in the space between the words, holding my breath not ready to exhale the voice that crazily vibrates within the silence that I create. The yoga of writing is one that I am just learning to breathe. My breath so much a part of my power with words as it is with my power of my body. My timidity hangs in the feverish exhale that lasts much shorter than my deep inhale of inspiration. Yet the inspiration shifts inside of my loins and inside my heart and inside of my throat. Stuck like the stickiness of a sore and knotted muscle. Begging to be massaged and used so that it can wander and create what it's been so inspired to do.

That space. That space between the fingers craving for artisanship. That space between the delivery of me to the world around is sacred space. Space where I hide and feel safe, but there is only so long before that space feels crowded with unsung songs and unwritten stories, which then makes me feel like screaming because I just can't bare the fact that I have gone so long without saying anything. Without accessing my voice, my truth, my power, my gift. 

Why am I so frightened by the exhale? Why am I so frightened by what I have to say? Why am I frightened by me? 

I don't think I'm abnormal. I think there are many people who given gifts that are full of power actually find them a bit frightening because of how consuming they can be. 

Knowing how you're meant to use your gifts is a trial and error experience. At least it is for me. My passions and my inspirations ignite so many ideas in my hands and in my heart yet I feel at a loss for words or for that matter action. I find myself consumed with the responsibility of what it means to begin and to commit that I hold my breath in action because I'm worried about failure. 

It seems much easier to stay in my safe space, however, the more I stay here the more crowded it feels the more restless I am and the more unsatisfied I am with so-called safety. Plus it is only hurting me, therefore no longer a safe haven. 

So as I face the truth of my own voice my own power and I experiment with it on the mat; I've begun to realize that I don't need to be afraid of my voice. It's much scarier to know that I've been denying the world my full attention and spirit. 

Humility is something that is heard not hidden. And from humility their is an intense amount of power and truth. 

I end with this because we so often times consider humility to be one of the "unspokens" but I beg to disagree that humility is one of the greatest voices. And I leave that to resonate in space...

Where do Labels end and I begin?

I have a very close friend is going through a battle of life or death with himself. Doctors continue to label him. Society continues to label him. But the most difficult part is that he labels himself. Brands himself with a label that is not who he truly is.

His heartbreak, his struggle, is one of the most difficult things I have ever had to witness in my life. And I have had to walk away because it is too difficult to feel his pain. I can no longer watch him turn into something he is not. And I am helpless to help him change because he is the only one who can decide how to rip the labels off and find the truth.

What is the truth? Well it's not always what everyone tells you it is. I have learned that about my own journey. I face it everyday and in every moment. Is this real? Is this true? Is this truly what I need? When we discover the truth sometimes it sucks. And sometimes we have to deliver bad news or realize that we can't do or be what the outside label says.

There are moments in life where you feel like you've got your clothes on inside out and everyone's judging you by the brand on the tag, only it's not necessarily the clothes you're wearing.  You're wearing you. And you don't know how to be you without someone telling you who you are. But the real you is you. There's no label you just are.

So where do I begin and labels end? Where do you begin and the label ends? Where does life begin and fairy tale or nightmare end?

I wrote this during work because I was so inspired by my friend's label of himself that I had to wonder a little bit about the necessity of labels and if there is the possibility of removing them.

When we tell someone what's wrong with them or label a problem or label ourselves--how is that effective help? Labels don't help. They box people in. 


What do you truly believe? That is your truth. That is who you are. You must feel it, it must cause your bones to shake and your heart to spin. There is no answer that we can give ourselves or to others that is going to be RIGHT. There is no RIGHT answer. There is only exploration. And that may not even be accurate. 


BE.


BE IN THE MOMENT.


BE WHO YOU ARE RIGHT NOW.


Don't try and change that.


Healing comes through awareness in the moment. 
It is our awareness in the instant time and space that allow us to recognize what we see.
We cannot count moments, but we can feel them with our gifted sense.
And from there we can feel life with our entire being.
That is the true gift of being human--feeling.


WHEN DO WE HAVE ENOUGH LABELS?
COULD WE LIVE WITHOUT LABELS?


I work in an industry that makes its living creating labels. Competition.
"I'm better than you are."
Can we just respect each other and recognize that if we all fit ourselves together that then we would have a very beautiful world and a balanced world because we would understand how we all need each other and operate as a collective unit by living in our being and feeling the moments that we are blessed with. 


Then maybe we wouldn't have such a difficult time believing in who we are. But we are currently a world of labels and that unfortunately causes my heart to hurt. So maybe if we begin to remove the labels and begin to accept who and what things are. Then maybe we'll create a little more peace.

A soliloquy

Can I write you a story? Can I play you a song? Can I dance with you in one arm and carry flowers in another? Can this be simply beautiful without an interjection of “what if?” Can I put my sail up and float along on this ocean’s wave even if it is just for a while? Can I just be swept away with the magic of your eyes gazing at me? Can I just forget all the yesterdays and feel free? Can this be what it is without one heart becoming wounded? Can love just be rather than end in misery? Can I just be me without causing an undesired effect? Can this be fun rather than a shotgun wound to the heart? Can I be with you without worrying if I will change my mind? Can we just be a harmonious melody even if there is a finish line? Can life allow for ending without dead ends? Can both of us see that if this is meant to be perhaps that means there may be a dropoff point?

What responsibility do I carry when exploring new territories? Am I really a Spanish Pilgrim carrying havoc and distress? Where might my joy take me if not into new discoveries? Is this not just an experiment of unconditional love for one another? Where then does this all leave me at the end of the day when I look at you and say, “I don’t know now, but I’m afraid I’ll know later and then I will only cause pain?” When are we allowed to have fun and let that be our love?

 “Who are you?” they always ask, “To not be with someone.” When does my answer “I am with someone and that someone is me,” become the right fact?

I am baffled by this role, this life of playing roles that are constantly misunderstood. I am baffled that there is this “need” to be with someone else to feel complete. I do not believe in this any more. I do not believe that I am missing a half. I do not believe that there is just one “just right” for me. I believe that I have been lucky to have fallen in love more than once and I believe that I am lucky to have discovered that I really am complete without the other “thee.” The mystery of belonging, of longing to be together, is something that I do not believe to be a healthy act.

Now I would just like to be and actually enjoy another’s company without the bells and whistles of future ringing in their eyes and ears as I speak my soliloquy. I do not want to apologize for casting a spell that causes you to see unclearly. I do not want to apologize for an end that may occur. I do not want to apologize for a fairy tale that may never end happily.

I simply ask for this moment, this bit of time, to be happy with what we both have given rather than worrying about tomorrow’s broken heart pedigree.