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Lost

Nature has always been my go to for when I’m feeling lost with no direction. Or bored and aimless. It gives me someplace to go. Something to do. I have a hard time sticking to well marked trails. I want to prolong my hike, see parts of the land others haven’t seen. I’ll venture off just to the left or right or to some unmarked territory.

I like to get lost. My head empties seemingly making space for ideas and inspiration. I have so many random ideas and musings in the notes section of my phone I should compile a book. I would title it Random Thoughts Inspired By Hikes That Have Nothing To Do With Each Other. Often times, some great lesson will reveal itself to me. As if She has been trying to tell me something all along and all I needed to do was come to Her to receive the message.

I hear Her when I’m wandering around Her land. Her voice filling my head. This is what happened the other day when I got lost in Malibu. On my way into the trail, I took note of a creek. So when I lost reception and access to my trail map and came upon the creek, I figured I’d simply follow it and it would lead me back home. It was at this moment I heard Her. You go above and beyond the path laid out by others. You wind and twist and take routes unestablished. It may take you longer to get home , but just think of everything you got to see that others didn’t.

I was happy to be lost until I came to a part in the creek where I wasn’t able to pass. My only option was to go back up the hill in hopes of finding a trail again. I literally clawed my way up the mountain where I would slide back down about every tenth step. The fires had left little vegetation for anything to hold onto – including my feet. One second a burned branch would be my lifeline as I would grab it with my hands to pull myself up. The next moment it would taunt me as it’s charred pointed end would catch my shirt, insisting I stay right where I was if not fall back. What began so beautifully ended up somewhat treacherous. Eventually, I made my way up and stumbled upon a ranch with some lovely horses. I pet the horses muzzle and immediately felt relieved knowing I’d be okay. I was on private property but no one saw me as I crept through the ranch eventually finding a gate with a passable door that led to a paved road. I was exhausted and dirty and ready to follow the well established route home.

I learned so much from Mother Nature that day. She can destroy as easily as she regenerates but destruction happens so quickly and regeneration takes much more time. Things can turn on a dime. You never know what may be just around the bend. So keep walking. Keep falling. Keep showing up.

You were never lost. You were always on the path. It just didn’t look like everyone else’s. You likely got a bit dirtier, tripped and stumbled more than the others. But all of this is preparation for a sweet reward that awaits you at the end. The reward may look the same as anyone else’s, but to you it will taste so much sweeter and what you’ve gained along the way is rare. Like heaven right here on Earth. Indulge in the reward. Savor it. It is yours.

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My Staycation

As of Friday December 21st, I gave myself permission to take a two week stay-cation. I decided due to the expense of travel during the holiday coupled with a deep desire to go nowhere and do no-thing, to stay put in Los Angeles. I was looking forward to sticking around while everyone else left. L.A. is best when half the town leaves. You can get from the west side to the middle of Hollywood in less than 40 minutes. That’s unheard of on even the best of days here in the City Of Angels. I actually enjoy driving as long as I can move unobstructed by other cars. I love driving fast even more. (It’s particularly satisfying driving north on PCH with a stick shift.) I roll the windows down, crank the music, sing loud and feel free. Other times, I just listen to the wind in complete silence. Either way, it’s a meditative experience for me.

I told myself I wasn’t going to work for two weeks. That I would take time for personal projects and self care. To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to the last two weeks of 2018. The two weeks prior had been a bit of an emotional roller coaster. I had been feeling tired, lost and sad. I assumed my heavy mood would extend into the holidays and maybe even intensify given the particular amount of loneliness one can tend to feel this time of year.

I experienced just the opposite. The past two weeks has been fulfilling and inspiring in ways I couldn’t imagine. I binge watched my now favorite episodic – Californication. And while for many the show may have confirmed that L.A. is nothing but a cesspool of vapid wanna be artists, it made me fall in love with my town all over again – its landscapes, its debauchery and its ability to continually inspire (and simultaneously ass kick) any who have aspirations for a creative life.

I began writing again. Not in the long form ways (like this blog) that I feel compelled to share with the world, but just musings and short poems and random thoughts – streams of consciousness that may or may not have a public life somewhere down the road. I wrote in ways that were personally satisfying.

I began dreaming again – allowing my imagination to open avenues of creativity for me. Thinking of all the possibilities this town holds, excited for what’s to come and the ride that 2019 will take me on.

And while I told myself I wasn’t going to work – I did here and there. Which proved to me, that no matter what, I know I will always be motivated to move ahead. I suppose I needed that confirmation.

Somewhere in the past two weeks, I began to trust myself more. Trust what I’m feeling called to do. Where I’m guided to go. I let go of the should’s and shouldn’t’s and gleaned what I was doing out of necessity and what I was doing from sheer love.

I drank (quite) a bit, I moved a bit, and I expressed a lot in all forms. By golly, I had FUN. I found pleasure in life in so many ways. I found what has been missing for so many years.

Given how not busy my life was, I had plenty of time for social media and other distractions. However, I had no desire to post much of anything. I had nothing to say. I was too busy LIVING my life rather than pontificating about it. A whole day would go by and somehow, I just couldn’t find the time for Instagram.

While I know my life will ramp up as the New Year moves forward and that I am never completely free of the darkness that sometimes distinguishes my light, I am going to try my darndest to carry these past two weeks with me. The ease. The joy. The disinterest for what I thought my life was supposed to be or look like. Because I’m too busy enjoying what it is.

2

(WO) Man

After a morning meditation the other day I was inspired by the idea of a woman’s circle. As I often do around new ideas, I created a mind map (see photo) to get a sense of what its purpose would be and what it might look like. Instinctually I wrote down the word ‘woman’ as (WO) Man. This said a lot to me about the very nature of what it means to be a woman.

Essentially, as a human race, we are all man. The Shiva energy or the supreme consciousness resides in all of us. But check out the difference between woman and man. Two letters. WO. Immediately I thought WOMB. The thing that makes women unique is literally our reproductive organs. I know some of you are reading this and saying ‘duh.’ But think about it. Your vagina, cervix, fallopian tubes, uterus, ovaries – all of the pieces and parts and energies that involve a female reproductive system – are just that. An intricate miraculous system that reproduces. A container that houses all the forces of creation. Holy shit.

This is our Shakti energy and women, this is the true source of our power. Our ability to create. Our ability to nurture. Our ability to give birth. Whether to another human being (I’m always blown away by that quite frankly), an idea or a movement. Our power does not come from shaming others – male or female. Our power does not come from executing a witch hunt or crucifying perpetrators. Our power comes from our ability to heal – ourselves and others – in the kindest most loving way possible. Which, by the way, may include a bitch slap every now and then if the nice approach doesn’t work. In fighting for our right to feel safe and free, let’s not lose what makes us so powerful. Our softness. Our nectar – the very source of our divinity.

My next question was Can men be included in this process? Yes. Should men be included in this process? Absofuckinglutely. They NEED to be included. But unfortunately, we’ve created a culture such that when either a man or a woman wants to explore, heal, and/or share their sacred feminine, they feel unsafe. Because that which has made women absolutely beautiful and unique and sexy and oh so powerful has been objectified. The very essence of our divinity has been scrutinized, disregarded and disrespected. We have all contributed. Men and women. We have allowed it. We have participated in its growth and dominance. We all must take responsibility for our part and we all must do our own work to heal it. Women cannot simply point our well-manicured fingers at men and vilify them.

Until we re-create a culture where it is safe for all of us to fully express and celebrate Her, it is necessary in some instances to hold separate containers for the work that all of us need to do. Thus, for now, my offerings will be limited to females so that they feel safe to be naked, vulnerable, and soft. I wish we could all dance with Her in the same room. To proudly express to the world all incarnations of Her and join and unite with Him in unabashed joy and pride. We are not there yet. But it is my prayer and hope that one day, sooner than later, we will be.

2

My Favorite Place

After most people have turned down the lights and climbed into bed – this is my favorite time to take a walk to the beach. Long after the sun sets and the tourists have gone home, the sand and saltwater become my home again. Just me, the sea and the moon. This night, the clouds are thick enough to dim its normally brilliant light making it extra daring to tread out on the rocks that jut into the water. Even though PCH is still fairly busy, I hear nothing of cars or engines or annoying joy riding motorcycles or city busses. All I hear is waves crashing loudly – one of my favorite sounds in the whole world. To my left, I can see the lights from the ferris wheel on the Santa Monica Pier. To my right, a flashing color strobe light from a rager at a swanky home in Malibu. But directly in front of me, only dark dark steely grey (not quite black) gently covered by a layer of smoky fog. Until a white splash bursts forward when the water crashes into the jetty.  All I smell is sweet salt water. One of my favorite scents in life. This is magic.

Within minutes the waves crash closer beneath the rocks where I sit making it more and more plausible that I’ll get soaked as the seconds go by. I think of walking in. I do. But in this moment it seems sitting above the waves is enough to benefit from their cleansing strokes. Every crash shatters my illusions and every lapse back to sea washes away the residual debris. The purifying truth telling sea. Yes, in its vast darkness, it’s my favorite place to be.

This is the only noise I ever want to hear again. I want to stay here forever. I dread turning my back on all of this dark mystery to walk up the long hill home. It feels like one of those magical dates that starts in the afternoon and lingers unexpectedly  – along with kisses and gentle touches – into the depths of night. One you never want to end. But eventually, it does.

Even though I’m back on concrete, tolerating the occasional vehicle riding by, just as I’m ascending my ears take in something different. Frogs – tenors, bass, altos and sopranos – all contributing their unique CROAKS to the symphony of nature. It was as if I was sitting front row of a raging frog concert. Until a vehicle races by and, as if the frogs detect an intruder into their private concert, fall silent.

I continue my climb home, knowing the night and I share some very private moments. Thoughts that are never to be discussed, words that only we exchange, dreams only She will know. In Her darkness, my secrets will always be safe.

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Am I Bi-Polar?

Lately, I’ve been struggling with who I want to be – how I want to represent myself in this world. Sometimes I am the ethereal yogi who floats like a nymph through life. Effortlessly wearing flowers in her hair. Speaking of love and Goddesses as if they were my dear friends who I invite over for tea. Or am I the wild, strong, fuck all, sometimes crazy woman who dances on poles and takes shots of tequila? The woman who is perfectly happy being thrown up against a wall and possibly gagged. Can I be both? Somewhere in between? Is there a happy medium to be found? A fairy – slut sliding scale? Or do I swing from persona to persona like a monkey in the jungle? I suppose the point is to be comfortable inhabiting qualities of both extremes and embracing and celebrating it all. This is tantra. No good. No bad. Not even ugly. All Divine. Intellectually, I understand this. However, most times, it simply makes me feel bi-polar. Like a box of Cracker Jacks. You never know what sweet surprise awaits you at the bottom.

One day I feel demure, subdued and offer simple, quiet, knowing smiles to people. I nod Namaste. This woman wears flowy skirts and mala beads and loves lace and pink and is perfectly willing to let a man support her. After all, her greatest gift is simply to be, allowing her presence to light up everyone she meets. Her favorite word is love. And she floats instead of walks. She longs to live off the land, simply, communing with nature. She smells like essential oils and thrives off green juice and acai bowls.

The next day, I wake up with a different woman altogether. This woman wears red lipstick and eats burgers and dark chocolate and drinks wine and beer. She doesn’t give a shit how much she weighs. She has the urge to writhe and twist wildly and sway her hips in a way that would embarrass most people. She wants a man who will challenge her, be smarter than she is and not put up with her shit. She is strong, but he is stronger. She is fierce, unapologetic, and most times politically incorrect. This woman says fuck a lot and likes to scream and thrash about. She loves power and desires diamonds and a beautiful home. She is not satisfied simply being. She needs to do.

These are two examples. There are at least ten other women waiting in the wings. How easily I fluctuate between all of them scares me. It leads me to believe I’m more than just a little crazy. It also makes it very challenging to create a consistent marketing strategy and it’s why I’ve been struggling to create a new brand for myself. I have no idea who I am most days. Maybe my brand should be Bat Shit Bi-Polar. Or plain old Totally Fucked Up.

I suppose the perfect partner for me would be a man who really doesn’t know what he wants in a woman. With me, he can sample just about every type out there.

Quite frankly, it’s exhausting trying to respond to the needs of a different woman every day. Life would certainly be easier if I could pick just one. Play one role. I would likely have a more consistent career. I’d complete hundreds of projects I’ve conceived over the past fifteen years. It would even make grocery shopping easier. It’s hard when one woman wants mac and cheese and diet soda and the other craves more fiber and greens, sometimes at the same time. Thus, I make daily trips to the store depending on who shows up for meals.

I’m not sure what to do – if anything – to seal the fissures of my shattered personality. Maybe I’ll continue to vacillate until I settle somewhere along the continuum. I’ll delicately dance between each woman with as much grace, grit and authenticity as I can muster on any given day. It certainly keeps life interesting.

There are a few things all of my women have in common.

They want to love and be loved so bad it hurts.
They want to care too much.
They want to feel to the depths of their being.
And every single last one of them wants to be seen.

4

2016 – A Reflection

There is so much I could say about 2016. Yet when I try to encapsulate my adventures of the past year into words, I fail. The closest I’ve come to describing my sentiments is “Whoa.” Since February, I have not slept in the same bed for more than three weeks and sadly, not for reasons some people traditionally use beds. I’ve prayed and meditated in India, surfed in Sri Lanka, hiked amazing mountains in Colorado, and made connections all over the world with friends old and new. I completed a good portion of my book yet also come to find that as poignant and insightful as my tale may be, without the clout of millions of followers on social media, it likely will not get published and reach those I so hoped it would. Unfortunate for me as right now, the last thing I want to do is play this social media game. It’s been weeks since I’ve been active on Facebook and I can’t say that I miss it. Ironically, however, I’m sure I’ll make a post or two about this blog. Otherwise, how else will anyone know I even wrote it?
This year has forced me to question who I am and who I want to be. Likely, given the current events of the past month, I am not the only one. I’ve had moments where I’ve felt the most expansive and light I’ve ever felt yet weeks later, shrunk into a contraction until only a shell of the woman I used to know remained. It’s been a study in contrasts to say the least.
2016 delivered so many answers yet even more questions. And lessons too many to recount here. Just when I thought I was content and safe and had shit figured out – WHOP! Right upside the head. Not once have I been allowed to forget that I have shadows and darkness that require my attention, care, and love. Pieces of me that I have been ashamed of and condemned are demanding to be tended to  with kindness and acceptance. To be integrated into my whole being as opposed to being pushed away and neglected. I can no longer beat them back and command they go away. I must lay down my arms and surrender. One day, feeling particularly defeated, I wrote – I’m tired of trying. And seamlessly the next words flowed from my fingers through my pen and onto the page – Then stop trying. 
I am making yet another move to find a place that feels like home. A place that will honor where I’ve been and nurture where I want to go. In my clearest moments, I am certain Los Angeles is this place. Yet, I watch doubt creep in when others fire questions my way. Where are you going to live? Do you have a job? What are you going to do when you get there? Do you have savings? I sense my blood pressure shoot up simply writing them down. When I feel strong and stable my reply is a definitive I don’t know, full of trust and calm. But repeating these questions in my head (a scary place to be) and overthinking (one of my greatest gifts) instantaneously triggers at times a debilitating fear that convinces me I’m destined for a lackluster life plagued by depression. Where I want to be seems so very far far away from where I am. And no Google map will get me there. I’m not even sure where ‘there’ is.
I’ve taken to wearing a ring lately that I picked up some years ago. On it, unbeknownst to me at the time, is an Alcoholics Anonymous anthem: I promise to take it one day at a time. I’ve never had a dependency issue with drink or drugs aside from caffeine, yet something in those words resonate deep inside. Lately, it’s what prevents me from feeling completely overwhelmed and helpless. I don’t know what will happen next week, next month, and sure as shit not in 2017. Thinking about a master plan feels too daunting and riddles me with anxiety. I am not sure what’s right. I can only be certain of the next right thing. A day at a time. And I know if I continue to do the ‘next right thing’ life will continue as 2016 ensued – a grand adventure. No matter where I am. #adventureon

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Staying Steady In The Wind

I haven’t been posting here much because most of my writing energy has been directed toward my book these days. However, to satiate your unyielding curiosity as to how I’ve been since my return from abroad and my subsequent journey, I offer you this blog. Truly it’s a self serving endeavor to check-in with myself and assess where I am so I can make honest and thoughtful choices for the second half of my summer.

I’ve been feeling like I need a respite from my constant motion of the past few weeks. It’s been a while since I’ve felt the peace and quiet of my family’s lakeside retreat. My friend’s home here, despite being in the city, offers a beautiful respite from the hustle and bustle of appointments, social engagements, and sitting in traffic. It is homey yet, clean and spacious and I’m always comfortable here. The energy of her space is zen and her kitchen fully stocked with everything I need to get all homebody and cook, instantly making me feel easy. She has a lovely pool in the backyard, which doesn’t hurt. I feel like I could stay here for days and not have to go anywhere. My definition of a true home.

I had a very L.A. kind of day today. It’s Sunday and I woke up on the first day of my cycle, feeling very internal and a need to protect and honor my feminine energy. I allowed myself to slip back into bed for a bit after my practice to linger and breath deep with one hand on my forehead and the other on my belly. Once out of bed I made my coffee and a very weekend breakfast for me – protein pancakes. I wrote some. I social media-d a bit. I took my time moving about, cleaning up and decided while a full on workout was not the right choice today, walking and some nature would do me some good. Here in LA, we like to call that a hike. There are no less than 50 other people ‘hiking’ with you but it did the trick and it’s close by.

I made a conscious decision that if I were to listen to any music on my jaunt up the hill that it would have to be mellow and introspective. Krishna Das was already pulled up in Spotify so that’s what began playing. Yup. I’ve become that girl. The one that listens to and sings music that most people only hear in yoga class. All the time. Mantras, kirtan, harmoniums, chanting. You name it. I play it.

Just before I reached the summit of Fryman Canyon, I was particularly moved. I’m sure it was the perfect storm of my weariness, the music, and hormones, but I needed to pause and sit to reflect. It didn’t take long for gentle tears to stream down my face. I’d had this feeling many times before, so now I knew what it was. It was not a gush of pain needing to find escape. It was simply feeling wanting to be known. Uncertainty. A deep longing to land somewhere but not yet knowing where that somewhere should be. Sure I had a sense that I belonged back here in LA or maybe even outside the city on the east coast, but I know that sometimes, my hopes and wishes may be shoved aside for a grander plan. One of which I am happy to resign myself to knowing if I do, that is where I’ll be happiest.

I noticed this little flower blowing in the wind. It was the only one around. It seems everything else had dried out and died as a result of the drought. It was a beautiful, albeit small, burst of brightness amongst dry desert dust. Although it was being tossed to and fro by the breeze, it was sturdy in its position. It was firmly rooted in the earth and come hell or high water, this little flower would not only survive, but flourish. It was nature’s perfect reminder – a representation of myself. Although I may be blowing about from coast to coast, home to home right now, I am not without purpose. Unlike my wanderings of the past, I am firmly rooted in my faith and supported by Divine guidance. I know I will withstand the torments of shuffling and uncertainty to continue to grow, flourish, and succeed. I stood up reassured of my path despite not knowing exactly what it might look like.

Upon rising from my seat, I felt my butt being poked with little spikes. I reached back to find I had sat on some sort of cactus like brush. Don’t think Mother Nature doesn’t have a sense of humor. She does. I smiled and shook my head. A gentle reminder to not take this stuff too seriously. Keep putting one foot in front of the other and remember to laugh every now and then. With that I continued my journey, tears dried, a smile on my face and determination to do whatever pleases me today. Tomorrow, I will continue my adventure the same way – step by step with awareness of what’s best for the next moment – as I board my plane to Colorado.

 

2

Am I Fun?

As I made my way out of the coffee shop this morning, the brief encounter with the slightly mad looking man with crazy disheveled black hair went something like this:

Crazy Man: Hello.
Me: Good morning.
Crazy: You look like you’re a fun person.
Me: I don’t know how fun I am right now.
Crazy: I think you’re fun.
Me: Thank you? Have a good day.

For the record, I don’t really think this man is crazy. I believe him to be one of those rare birds who is unafraid to call it like he sees it and enjoys offering kind, audible comments that make people smile. I love these people and actually believe they, not us hiding behind furtive glances and beneath silent comments, too afraid to tell someone they’re pretty or handsome or we like their style, are the sane ones. I also do not believe our meeting to be an accident.

There was power behind this slightly unusual interaction. I could feel it by the sadness that sprung in me immediately, like an almost dead plant that comes alive after receiving a fresh pour of water. The trickle of tears I knew would fall if I repeated our conversation aloud. This small exchange struck at the heart of something I’ve been wrestling with since my return to Austin and there are two people in this world that I wanted to talk to about it. These gems were the type of friends that would do exactly what I needed them to in that moment to help me get to the crux of my emotions – listen. They also happened to be the numbers that responded with voicemail. More often than not, an unavailable friend is always someone up there nudging and encouraging me to figure it out on my own. Get your ass in your chair and write about it.

For the past ten days or so, I’ve battled with a feeling that isn’t foreign to me. I felt it before I left Austin and was hoping, with eyes fresh from travel abroad and a new perspective, something would shift. But it seems it hasn’t. There’s a sense of sadness that I can’t shake when I’m back in Austin. I’m hesitating, but if I’m honest, I would classify it as a mild depression. Before I left I was convinced an unfulfilling job and inauthentic life was the source. It’s one of the main reasons I flew the coop.

I learned a lot about myself in my three-month sojourn. I experienced a lot of healing and found forgiveness and peace like I have never known. I returned to the States excited to make a fresh start and my first week back, I felt energetic, alive with enthusiasm despite a pretty much non-existent jet lag. Elated by the comforts of home, I was filled with gratitude for all the gifts of my life. I was up early, practicing deeply and sharing time with loved ones. Inspired and motivated by opportunities in front of me, I anticipated my life guided by love and authenticity. You would’ve had to scrub the smile off my face with steel wool and bleach.

Within 48 hours of being home in Austin a switch flipped. While the gratitude I feel for being back in my space, a seemingly endless array of clothing to chose from, and long mornings to write has not been lost, there it is again – what I can only describe as a quiet malaise. A small veil of heaviness has steadily begun to lay over the light, enthusiastic woman I experienced merely weeks ago. She seems time zones and almost worlds away.

To my logical mind, this doesn’t make any sense. There’s a part of me that loves Austin – biking down to the trail, walking in nature so close to the city. The space I’ve cultivated. My friends. I have a list of reasons to enjoy this town. So why, aside from the occasional moments likely prompted by a cocktail, does the joy filled girl – the one the crazy man seemed to discern beneath a slightly sullen exterior – seem so elusive in Austin?

As I’ve discussed with many friends here, some of who feel the same, I can’t quite put my finger on why I lack the same joie de vivre being back in Austin. Together we’ve mulled over potential culprits. (One being the absence of Uber and Lyft. Seriously. I have no car and am thus relegated to areas I can walk, bike or bum a ride off all too generous friends.) I have no need to rattle off a list, as it is not my objective to defile this city. On the contrary, I spent many an hour trying to convince my overseas friends to come visit because the city is so wonderful! And I still believe that. But something is preventing me from experiencing it.

Was the ‘newness’ of my first week back in the States the culprit of my perma-grin in Los Angeles? Was avocado every morning after a three-month depression enough to make me giddy? Or did time with my teacher contribute to my love of life? Did I still consider Los Angeles as time off – an extension of my travel abroad? A week more of carefree living despite being within the borders of my homeland?

Or is something deeper at play here? Did my unconscious response to the kind sir on the patio of Café Medici signal a certain unwillingness to have fun and be lighthearted? What is the weight my heart bears that seems to effortlessly disappear when I am in Los Angeles? While Austin is a great city, is it like an ex-boyfriend? Someone I love deeply yet ultimately, not right for me? Did Austin, like any good relationship, serve its purpose? Is it simply time for me to move on?

I don’t have the answer and so I will continue to adventure on, asking myself questions along the way. My job is to be brutally honest with what I’m feeling and continue to live authentically. Maybe that will land me back in Austin. Maybe Los Angeles. Maybe somewhere that hasn’t crossed the limited capacity of what I allow my mind to imagine. Wherever it is, I know it will be the right place, at the right time. And in that place, there will be fun. Lots of it.

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