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?

Semantics

December 30th, 2014. It is a strange day. The last day of this year that I have time and space to write. Today marks 22 years since my father’s passage out of this world and away from tangibility; from touch. I can still remember, 22 years ago today, placing my small, warm hand on his. Cold and heavy. The room, violet dark and filled with tears, has remained a precious haven to me – Now only in memory.

There are times when all I want, all I need is an embrace. His embrace. A father’s embrace. I feel it would help make sense of days like this, in their mingled joy and sadness. Perhaps it would make today feel a little less strange.

It is this memory that is precisely why I have a strong dislike for the concept of resolutions. Even the word itself, irks me. I suddenly feel that I am wrestling inside an itchy sweater, while swatting away at a fly pestering my face. A fly keen on eyelashes, to be specific.

Resolution: A decision or determination; the act of determining upon an action. A solution or settling of a problem.

While the definition doesn’t sound half bad, it’s the implication of permanence that doesn’t sit right with me. As I learned on this day 22 long years ago – nothing is permanent. In addition, the impending consequence (usually utter disappointment and self-doubt) upon failure to conclude said resolutions is what I really don’t like. As far as I’m concerned, resolutions are just ultimatums in a pretty dress.

Believe it or not, this is actually meant to be a message of hope. A message encouraging the creation of lifestyle goals, in place of New Year’s resolutions.

Goal: an achievement toward which effort is directed.

Goals, especially when realistic and attainable, become joyful pursuits. We often set the bar slightly too high, with rigid deadlines and strict parameters, turning our joys into stressors. (Sidenote: Deadlines? Really? Who came up with that word?)

Goals are flexible, pliable, and moldable to circumstance. Rather than a start-finish design like resolutions, goals can be added to, and adapted to accommodate for change. True, some old habits should be cast aside, but many habits simply need to be nurtured and encouraged to thrive. Rather than your focus being “ax that, toss this,” why don’t you focus instead on providing time and space for the things that bring you joy to flourish? As you focus on the beautiful aspects of your life, the unhealthy bits will begin to fade away, leaving behind bright and vibrant YOU.

Happy New Year!

A Legacy of Love

Katrina Dawson, 38 years old, sacrificed her own life to save two, by putting herself in front of her pregnant friend during the Lindt Cafe siege in Sydney, Australia this Monday. She was a loving wife and mother of three children, all under the age of 10.

I hear stories such as this, and my heart soars. Full of sorrow and full of light. It is in these precious yet devastating moments of observing true selflessness, that my adoration for humanity overflows. In a circumstance of suffering and fear, courage illuminated the darkness; a beam of light in a blackened room. This woman, in an outpouring of love, created a legacy in her final few breaths.

I believe tragedies, as they should, force us to reevaluate the value we place on life. We are fickle, forgetful creatures. We often, and easily, become consumed with things trivial and finite. Our personal feelings of contentment become threatened and bruised as we are manipulated into believing that all we are lacking is the next best thing; that your success defines you; that success itself is defined by money, status and power.

We suffer. Our obsession with obtaining – with hoarding – becomes akin to our pursuit of happiness. More is never enough.

We leave gratitude behind. The richness found in small moments of a stranger’s kindness is lost on us, and we turn the other way. A warm meal is not enjoyed in appreciation of it’s nourishment, for we are already on to the next item on our agendas. As we raise our expectations for ourselves to an almost unattainable level, we raise them for others as well. A kiss that once melted our heart is no longer enough. Households once built on Love and Trust are now sinking into a ditch of daily pressures, schedules, timelines and other trivialities that we’ve brought upon ourselves.

Anxiety and suspicion take over, alien vines choking out our Trust, breaking their way into the cornerstone of Love that once defined all.

Or did it? We, being fickle and short-sighted, have forgotten. Our self-worth is grounded in the temporal. Our vain quest to find a fountain of youth has led to a disdain for the aged, which once symbolized wisdom, thereby reflecting shamefully on our disregard for the honorable. Life begins to lose it’s value as we place it on scales easily broken.

Then, tragedy strikes. Those of us who take just one extra moment to consider the gravity of it are brought to our knees. Our memory, being jolted, forces us to consider once again the brevity of life, and how precious it truly is.

May we live and love in such a way that does not require tragedy to remind us of the daily gift we are given.

Rest in peace, Katrina Dawson, and thank you for leaving behind a legacy worthy of honor.

Elephant Love

“Love is many splendid thing; love lifts us up where we belong; all you need is love!” -Ewan McGregor, Mouin Rouge

Of the many great and profound mysteries in existence, there is none more evasive than the mystery of love. No matter how much you observe or experience it, love cannot be understood in it’s entirety. Unlike the many other great mysteries, such as: whether or not there is life on other planets, our changing perception of time as we age, how the universe began (truly) – love cannot be numbered, measured, dated or described.

Love is in and of itself, a paradox. It is an entirely individual experience, yet it is something to be shared. It’s forms are vast; innumerable. It is often referred to as the strongest force there is, yet it cannot function alone. Someone tells you they love you. What does that really mean, and how do you know it to be true? They can produce no substance, nor sign any paper that proves it. You must simply trust them, and hope that they know how love is best communicated to you. What feels or looks like love to one person, may be interpreted as an entirely different emotion to another.

Which brings up another facet of the mystery. An emotion – is that what love is? No, I don’t believe we can classify it so simply. Yet we do it anyways, because an emotion is far easier to understand than an invisible force. A whirlwind, if there ever was one. One moment it lifts you high above the ground, and the next moment you are dashed to the ground.

You cannot love without risking heartache. We choose to love even though it hurts. We do it again, and again, and again, ad nauseam. Yes, we choose to enter into a realm where we have a one in two chance of ending up face down on the ground, alone. We claim, “Never again!” Until another opportunity presents itself… 

I believe we choose it because there is no other choice. To close your heart to love and resist the mystery is to choose a life of darkness. A road where there is no light, and life itself becomes meaningless.