Mothers

I was on the phone with my mum today when she told me about a note she'd found, written when I was a child:

I would like a pet, because I'm lonely at home, and I'm lonely at school. 

It hit me right in the heart.

On my darker days, sometimes I wonder: have I been sad my whole life? 

Why is it this way? Do I even want it to change? For that melancholy to be lost? 

This is something I know about myself: in spite of (or perhaps because of) this sadness, my capacity to love is enormous. As a child, I think it was painful for me to have that longing but no outlet for it. In some ways it still is, although I know that I should have–and should still–turn it inwards.

I am looking forward being a mother and allowing this love to flow out of me in a new way. 

"I am larger, better than I thought, 

I did not know I held so much goodness."

-Walt Whitman

Mortality.


The truth, at times jarring and painful, and at others, soft and liberating.

I read a book last week, it was really good. It's called When Breath Becomes Air. The story of a neurosurgeon and his relationship with death. It bears echoes of my relationship with death, and maybe yours too.

It's amazing that deep thinking on this reality is such a powerful force of clarification. One day I will die, and the most I can hope for when the time comes is to greet death as an old friend. A friend who has been beside me all along, not as an antagonist, but as a guide...if only I can learn to listen.

I once listened to a podcast of Jack Kornfield where he said something along the lines of; what matters at the end of life? Only this–how well did you love? It struck me and stuck in my mind. This. This is the truth. The transcendent, liberating, truth.

I find it is a really effective catalyst of self-appreciation. All the bullshit I used for self-flagellation evaporates, and I am left with a deep appreciation for my life. Compassion for myself flows easily and I see what a gift it is to be given this life.

thank you. thank you. thank you.

I have to keep writing. This is a recurring theme.

It's a problem, though, because I am afraid. Afraid of being vulnerable–with myself, with the internet.

I spent some time today thinking about social pressure and asking myself hard questions about what it is that really matters in life. What motivates me? If I am honest, I don't like the answer.

Part of me forgives my brain for being so preoccupied with external measures of success and prestige. This is the by-product of six million years of hominid evolution, after all. It's survival: earn acceptance (avoid rejection) or suffer the consequences.

Another part of me knows that there is a different way to live, if only I could work up the courage. It would be so liberating to unshackle myself from the pillars that I am so tightly bound to, especially subconsciously. Why not just give myself the freedom to live in the world that I create?

Part of the difficulty stems from having a rational voice that has been settling in to my mind with increasing stubbornness as I get older. There is only so far I can go before I get uncomfortable and my self-deception alarms start sounding.

Is there a divine plan for everything? I think no. Is everything exactly as it should be? I think yes.

The trouble then is integrating this kind of knowledge with the realities of every day life.

Something that I wrote last month

Writing is hard. It is really, really, difficult. Not so much the writing itself, but the baggage that it comes with. I know I have to keep writing, I know it's the only way. But shit, it really hurts. In order to write, you have to actually consult yourself, sit down at the dinner table and look at your host square in the face. I have been sneaking in the door late at night with cheap takeout and a bottle of wine to distract myself.

Maybe I should edit the opening sentence above. Writing isn't hard—it's life that is. I went back and re-read some of my unpublished drafts, they are overflowing with pain and disappointment and confusion. For some of those words, I have a better answer, while others made my heart hurt again. I'd forgotten that I felt that way.

Today, here is where I am. I feel as though there are two sides of me and I don't know how to reconcile them. One side is emotional and artistic, a dreamer. I daydream of going away, somewhere. Publishing a book of poetry. The spiritual side, if you could call it that. It thrives on soul food. 

The other side daydreams about getting a masters, of learning about economics and reading the news. Being a professional. Owning a house. Those words sound empty and false. Maybe they are. It is my spiritual side's distain for the societal influence, the status-seeking ego. 

Can I make them both happy?

I started writing this post with a question;
'How do you distinguish between feelings that are real, and those that aren't?'

I mean, what is the difference between sadness/anger/hurt that has an honest reason, and that which comes from being hormonal or stressed or hungry or tired?
Which thoughts are worth following through on, and which ones should be ignored? How am I supposed to trust how I feel?

But as I sat here looking at what I wrote, I realized that I do know the difference.
I can't articulate how, exactly, but on some deep level, I do know the difference between feelings with honesty and integrity behind them, and those stemming from some other issue. Shit, it's easy to forget that.

Man, it's nice when that happens and you figure something out through writing.

It amazes me how short-term my memory is. A few months of living in a certain way, and I almost forget that it was ever different. The gap seems enormous between who I am now and who I was six months ago, and six months before that. In a way, that can be convenient, but on the other hand it's pretty unsettling to have a circumstantial identity. Can't I just pick the best one and be that person all the time?

Cherry blossom girl

Once again, it's been ages since I've written something here. As I get older, I feel less willing to give my thoughts over to the internet. I guess being vulnerable in this way doesn't come so naturally.  But then again, this has been my place of documentation for years, and it seems such a shame to stop.

It's amazing how much foreshadowing I can see, when I go back and read the things I wrote years ago. I am so glad I'm not apathetic. Sometimes it's overwhelming, having a loud and really melancholic inner voice. But man, thank god. It's so comforting to know that I am really alive, in that way.

Sometimes I feel like growing older means committing yourself to a certain way of thinking, the world becomes a little clearer through your particular lens. But man, I like the fogginess. I love the process of struggling to understand, without actually ever getting there. I'm striving to keep the ambiguity. There's beauty in that.

"Something changes the moment you decide you’ve found a person you are ready to reveal parts of your soul to. Something stands out and makes the moment unique. A profound multidimensional clarity resembling a piece of carefully gathered stardust; As if you are whispering “finally” and your eyes fill with light and spontaneity. As if you do not care whether your heart will melt or crumble in the process because your brief courage undoes your tremendous fear of disbelief. You live for these moments; For you are, maybe for one second or more, sweetly forced to surrender yourself to unconditional intimacy. A moment of psychological reward smashing all self-imposed disciplines founded on terror. This is all you need."

~ Anais Nin

I feel as if I've discovered an amazing secret. It really is possible for things to be this simple and profound at the same time. I'm so grateful. 

In the spirit of the week

Stating the obvious- it's been a while. I've had this blog for about seven years, can't believe a whole year went by without posting anything. I started writing a few times, but it never went anywhere. Nonetheless, I am glad that the internet exists for people like me to document their personal growth.

I've been thinking lately about how much you can tell from a person's gaze. I have an old friend whose eyes betray him, sometimes just for a split second, but it's enough. My stomach drops and I'm always tempted to point out the falseness of his words. But in the end, who could be so cruel as to point out to someone that their life is convinced, they are fooling themselves? I've been there myself, it's a slow and painful process to break out of it. Some people never do.

Another example: in a shop the other day, a nice employee struck up a conversation with me, but after I paid, I noticed she deliberately didn't meet my gaze. For the rest of the day I was kind of anxious about it, wondering if I had not tipped enough and disappointed her. It leaves me wondering if I am perceptive or just insane.

Years ago I met a Native man who looked right at me, said I had 'clear eyes' and was therefore allowed to enter his home. I wonder what it was he saw...naivety? Innocence? Idealism? If I saw him again, would he say the same thing?

Something strange has been happening to me...I'll be going about my business, on the bus, in class, or drifting off to sleep, thinking generally platonic thoughts, and suddenly, my thoughts will be abruptly interrupted by a single image from my past-mostly my childhood. And in a split second, my mind's eye is instantly FLOODED with details I had no idea I'd remembered. There is no pattern to these weird, unsolicited flashbacks, some of the images are significant and some aren't at all... It makes me feel very strange and uncomfortable and on some level I am worried my brain is preparing itself for eventual death

A poem that struck me

"Our lives are not our own
From womb to tomb,
We are bound to others
Past and present,
And by each crime
And every kindness
We birth our future"

How does 'personal growth' happen for you? Is it slow, in hindsight? Is it immediate regret? An epiphany?

Most of the time I feel it gradually...over the span of weeks, months, years. The most profound kind though, is when I'm in the dumps and a random thought scrolls across my mind, and suddenly! I know exactly what to do next with my life! And next thing I know, I'm smiling from ear to ear because the xfiles are so good and man, this toast is TASTY

night fever

If I'd written something two weeks ago, it would've been along the lines of how I've fully realized that "often, the fear of doing something is worse than actually doing it".  I'd have said how funny it is that I spent YEARS stressing about moving away. Doubting myself, feeling torn, postponing it, facing judgement, losing sleep, making excuses, feeling stuck but being scared of changing that, worrying about feeling lonely. Why funny? (I'd have said) Because, well, when I actually did it, it was a fucking breeze.


Although it still holds true, those thoughts have been replaced with ones of disappointment, in myself. I have this hazy idea of what I want my future to be like, but it's unclear how I get there from here. It should be a straight path, a simple continuation and progression of what I'm already doing. But somewhere along the line I set such low standards for myself, that the bridge between my present and idealistic future has become an impossibly large gap. It's kind of ironic, I guess..being disappointed with yourself for not believing in yourself. I don't know..was that even what it was- me not believing in myself? What makes a person accept "good enough" instead of holding out for something perfect? Why did I wait so long to make my happiness, in all aspects of my life,  a really serious priority? I've been so passive...

There's been progress though...my life has been so empty lately that I've had room to fill it up with things I actually care about, and that feels awesome. Even so, there's so much missing and I'll be damned if I know how to get it..

Head full of heavy thoughts. Tomorrow I turn 20. 

Maybe maturity is fully realizing that all of your life situations are temporary and subsequently letting go..

In 24hrs

Watching Four Rooms, Jackie Brown, Foxy Brown and reading up on Quentin Tarantino and Pam Grier. Thinking about the L word. Thinking about Pulp Fiction too hard makes my limbs tingle.

Silas the magic car - Mew

I'm envious of my roommate Kathleen's laugh. Or is it her sense of humour? Whichever quality it is that makes it so that mildly amusing things warrant a genuine explosion of belly laughter. So nice.

This week I got a Christmas kitten. His name is Silas, and every time I look at him my heart swells.

Does your subconscious haunt you too?

Mine has been particularly cruel lately. In moments of baked solitude on the bus, it attacks me with bad memories and repressed thoughts that make your stomach drop. When I'm sleeping, faces in my dreams tell me what has to be done and that I've already fucked up my life enough. What really gets me though, is the notion that  the decisions I've made have made me less than what I could have been.

It's been a while

I used to be so much more articulate. Able to quantify what I feel and wrap it up nicely and present it to someone for analysis.

These days I can't sort myself out. I feel so much on so many different levels that when I think too hard I get lost. I'm stuck in a fog that is only clear in retrospect. I just want to be free of it.

Positively horny with grief

Over the past few days, I've felt sadness to a level I didn't even know I was capable of. It's so cyclical. Up for a weeks, then stop. And think. Fuck, my heart is breaking. I lost something really special.