These are my Little Girl dreams

To live to write and to write to live.

To travel.

To live in sunshine, a stone’s throw from the ocean.

To be a mother in a happy marriage.

To be fit and healthy; vibrant.

For stress to be a stranger to my home, to my heart.

To live paradoxically; independent and in community,

Passionately and consistently,

with adventure and stability -

Full of love, full of life.

These are my youngster hopes. My version of a princess’ tale. The wishes of a fresh heart. A glance into the window of my future. Call me naive, if you will. Call me anything you like. I will simply smile in reply. Someday you may make your way into a book of mine.

A slice of NOLA

I am exceedingly happy. It’s the Bayou Boogaloo in New Orleans. My dear friend Brian is off to work and I am left to my wanderings. I followed the music here, to the Boogaloo. I begin by buying some slightly overpriced photography. A price I gladly pay to support a passionate, independent artist. I hope someday people will do the same for me.

With merchandise in tow I meander over to the Bayou’s edge to sit and people-watch in one of the best cities to do so. My bum is quite literally on the pavement as my skirt is not long enough to provide a barrier, but it is warm and I am in love. I am in love with the raw, real, moment-by-moment energy that radiates from every noun in this town.

Everything is positively saturated with color. The music, the people, the food. Nothing is monochromatic. Even the gamut of minor physical discomforts (more often than not related to the humidity) provide an edge to the bliss that make it altogether joyous.

I wander over to the stage where the Funky Dawgs Brass Band is warming up for their performance. I am impressed from the start. Alone, but not in the least lonely, I dance to my content.

There is all kinds of dancing happening around me, some of which is just shy of twerking. At first glance, this seems entirely inappropriate, but it is suddenly validated (to a certain extent) as one of the band members puts down his trumpet and begins to rap. Following close behind is a chorus which repeats: “Shake what yo mama gave you”.

My experience is punctuated by observing something that both touches and amuses me. I turn to see a woman with bilateral above the knee amputations dancing in her motorized scooter as if it is the last thing she will do. The sun seems to shine directly from her ebony cheeks as the curls of her fantastic weave bounce about her shoulders. Being toted along with her is her Shitzu, who sits in a wide-open carrying case where her feet would’ve been. His expression reads: This is just another day in New Orleans.

And it is.

Companion Exchange

I am in a mood. Not just today. It’s been a number of days that this mood of mine has been an unwelcome companion. I’ve blamed it on all kinds of things: work, fatigue, work, PMS, work, missing my Love across the ocean, work, etc. While there may be some truth to the above, they are only compounding factors. The truth is, I have not written in days. Nor have I exercised. The neglect of these two essentials in my life has produced a restlessness that is permeating me entire being from my exterior to my core. My very soul feels restless, as if I have left her somewhere and she cannot find her way home.

So I begin to write in an effort to find her again. As I write, the fog clears. Writing provides a path – a direct route – to where she is. We reconnect. Julia Cameron provides a perfect analogy, summing up this angst:

“Over the long term, writing is a lot like marathon running, and just as a runner suffers withdrawal when unable to run for a day or two, so too, does a working writer miss her writing work. A certain amount of writing, like a certain amount of miles, keeps the artistic athlete happy and fit. Without this regular regime, tensions build up. Irritability sets in. Life becomes somehow far less hospitable. A good writing day rights this again… It cheers them up. It energizes them. It gives them a sense of flow.”

My writing has seen me through death, divorce, depression, and despair. It has been there for all my joyful celebrations, travel, adventure, and love. My writing has never judged me (though I can hardly say the same about it), but it has challenged me. It has challenged me to be better than I allow myself to think I am. It has helped me work through confusion and fear, showing me the light in my darkest of moments, if only a pinpoint.

I look at my mood and realize I’ve been choosing the wrong companion. My writing, my true companion, has been here all along, patiently waiting for me to take notice, and engage.

Melbourne

Right now I am in Portland. I live in a studio apartment that looks eerily similar to my previous one bedroom apartment in Goose Hollow. It has one major downfall in that there is no direct light. Ever. However, it is cozy and quaint and I am comfortable here.

Yes, I am comfortable. I have a steady income at a fantastic NICU, I have a handful of the most wonderful friends, and the standard of living here is beyond reasonable. I have every need and convenience easily attainable at my fingertips. My knowledge of this city makes it nearly impossible for me to get lost. There is always some new restaurant, food cart, venue or event popping up to keep things interesting. The general scenery here is, well, generally beautiful. 

In spite of all this, I am ready to leave.

“Why?” Someone may ask. “Why leave what sounds like an idyllic situation?” I have a one-word answer for that:

EXPANSION.

I am ready to further my growth. I have expanded as far as I can in this lovely city of roses, but I am limited here in all my comfort and familiarity.

I am ready for the challenge of being in a strange place where I could easily get lost, where I may feel lonely at times, where I may be inconvenienced, where I am working, and living, and getting by in a place I do not know.

In other words, where there is adventure. My travels through Australia gave me a glimpse of who I am outside of my usual context. A journey of redefinition. This move – this expansion – will cast the mold that was created in the independence of my solo travels. It will show me a new and glorious facet of freedom. It will, in essence, bring me home.

Curious

“Can I really explain what it is like, to reside in that place? Not really. I can only write about it.” -Rick Bass

It’s a curious difference. The difference between explaining and writing. When I try to explain to someone what I experience in my mind, in my body, when I am writing, something odd happens. To put it simply, I become a dithering idiot. I stumble over my words like a babe’s first toddle, leaving them to doubt how it is that I could possible form a sentence on paper.

How do I tell them that there is vibrant electricity running through my body as my fingers tap away at the keyboard? Do I explain what is happening in my head? That I see an entire film production of characters interacting spontaneously, changing their minds from one action to the next, until they do something worth penning down? What would they say if I were to describe the characters as not only having minds of their own, but also slowly becoming my companions? Would they appreciate the energy that seeps from me as I attempt to tailor words into phrases, into sentences, into pages – into story? How do I explain this? Can I explain what it is like? I must agree with Bass. “Not really. I can only write about it.”

Mad Boston

I fear that the more I make my life about my art, and less about my work, that my art will eventually become just that - work. All work and no passion. I need frequent reminders of why I do what I do; why I write. These reminders come in all forms. Such as the casual observance of passersby.

When Jacques and I were sitting on Lani Kai beach on O'ahu, along came a woman carrying a large stick, her two dogs walking beside her. A large mutt of a dog, and an ever-so-energetic Boston Terrier. These three characters began to play. Our attention was drawn towards the Boston as he began to dig around the stick his owner had brought. Ferociously. Under the stick, next to the stick, and even in places nowhere near the stick at all. 

He dug and dug, in an absolute frenzy. He panted wildly, tongue curled up, cheeks drawn back in a manic grin as sand flew in all directions. He was turning in circles as he dug. The hole he created his pivot point, his spastic little body like a secondhand on a clock.

“Mad,” Jacques said, shaking his head. “Absolutely mad.”

“What is he digging for?” I wondered aloud. “He’s crazy!”

Then it hit me. He was crazy. Crazy in love with what he was doing in that moment. His digging wasn’t him looking for something. He wasn’t digging to get anywhere, or to accomplish any great feat. He dug simply for the love of digging.

What would the world be like, I wonder, if we were all like this mad Boston? Passionately pursuing things for no other reason other than the sheer joy of the pursuit?

Story Time

Last Thursday I was welcomed home by my dear friend Brian and his fantastic and endearing girlfriend, Ashley. They greeted me with a warm bowl of seafood chowder, garlic bread, and a divinely crafted rum cocktail. We made a picnic table of the futon bed and began to fill the evening with reminiscing and recounting the tales from our first meeting in New Orleans, nearly three years ago. We were part of a band of lost souls who had all entered NOLA soon after some kind of crisis. We came looking for a life-changing experience, or at least an experience that was different than the one we’d just had, and we were not disappointed. Although each of us were in a bitter and difficult time of our lives that Spring, we recalled the memory of our week at the New Orleans India House Hostel with fondness and laughter.

So much laughter… “Hi! I’m Cuba Gooding Jr.!” became the tagline of our evening. Probably because that story took the longest to tell. Either me, Ashley, or Brian himself would interrupt him as he told the tale of meeting the actor, in order to insert another suddenly-pertinent story. This became the theme of our rum-spiked banter, captured most poignantly when I asked them why they were returning to New Orleans.

“For the stories,” Brian stated simply. I understood perfectly. I have more stories from my week in NOLA than I do from my month in Sydney. There is something so very raw, so real, about the people of New Orleans. They live in the present more than any other people I have ever known.

“…Because you never know if today will be your last,” Ashley added to the thought I’d shared. A sobering thought to most, but far from sobering to a New Orleanian. The hurricane season is an annual reminder not just of Katrina, but of the brevity of life itself. So… sobering? Far from it. Life-giving. Every day is a gift. Freedom to express, freedom to love, freedom to live – are all daily treasures.

As Brian put it, New Orleans is the city of “close enough”. No one is there to get famous, gain status, or acquire prestige. They are there to find a culture that doesn’t wreak of pretension. They are there to hear music played for the sake of music. They are there to live passionately for passion’s sake. They are there for story. Whether it’s to add to their own or discover other’s.

Song, dance, folklore, myths, oral tradition and finally the written word were invented to tell the story of the human race. Stories have long since been passed down from our ancestors to provide guidance, wisdom and even entertainment from one generation to the next. On an individual level, our stories are what reveal our humanity. This is why I write, why I dance, why I travel. This is why people such as Brian and Ashley move their whole lives from one city to another. Because who are we without our story?