Solitude: What the Dream Requires to Come to Life

Sometimes the dreary slips out from my deep, and I begin to consider dreaming up, actually doing, writing, creating, reading, journaling. I make to-do lists. I think about buying a vanilla/cinnamon candle to burn when I leave work, and begin remembering what my solitary life entails. What I would like it to entail.

I have dreamt, my entire life, of who I will be. I consider the house I'll live in and what I'll draw on the walls, what paint I will use to make the space spacier, to make it a bit easier to spread out and breathe within four walls. I dream of afternoons where the windows are open and the breeze is calm and the flowers haven't wilted in their vase on the sill. I dream of stillness and my lungs lift, all of my organs lift, at the thought.

And then there is the exhilerating thought that I can make my dreams, or begin the process, with my two hands now. I can put my words to paper and I have paint, unopened, on the shelf. I have memories to turn into stories, and a few solitary mornings to breathe into the full person: myself by myself, and the self I've been in social circles, with my boyfriend, at work. I have time to connect all the dots, to bring all aspects of myself together like ribbon ends and know who I am, in my entirity.

So I begin the work. I open the journal. I make lists. I find poem notes to stretch into full pieces, and small thoughts to elaborate. Then the major conflict I always encounter strikes. I go to the keyboard and am empty. I take words out of the air and all of them come together in such shabby pairs. Everything is disappointing, suddenly. Thus, I am disappointing, suddenly. And I cannot go on.

I begin working out the dream, and the dream turns out to be a hell of a lot of work. I'm ready to crawl back into bed, to call up someone to dive into, to pass the time with, to forget about what I've been avoiding: time to know and be and live into my own dreams, into what makes me. I become and observant dreamer, again. Wishing and hoping and fantasizing, but never stepping into the big mess living out our dreams requires.

I have learned that I need solitude to be fully me. I need my own work to feel fulfilled and feel valuable. I need solitude to mull my social experiences and open myself up to what has happened in that part of my world. I need to be by myself, with my art, candles, taking baths, listening to my favorite soft-blue-toned music, with my deep pain, with the joy people have brought, and hem it all in, consolidate, and feel full, satiated, alive.

I don't know how to approach solitude right now. I am restless. I want to move and go and talk and be with, rather than without. I don't know how to be productive when it comes to my own life and my own aspirations. I'll try again to set goals, and hope that this week I'll have the exhilerating experience of accomplishing one.

To Live More Widely

There is a knot devouring muscle in my back pulling my spirit down, winding it up in so many words I can barely distinguish them, blurring specific emotions into some sort of dreary cloud nest. It is hard to undo these sorts of things. It is best if you can find the point of origin, the moment, the first word, the news, the situation that might have been the catalyst. Start there. So, that's where I am now, tonight. I am gripping the portion of the root I can name, the one that first made me uneasy, that began constructing this strange uncomfortable edifice to the left of my spine.

I am starting there. And how ridiculous? Something rather simple created a chaos of insecurity in my head. Had me drifting through the grayscale--back and forth. I started comparing myself to some people who are way cooler than I am. Started worrying. Started feeling jealous. And also felt the strange weight of futility that comparing oneself to others often delivers.

Whenever I do this, delve into that awful, stupid, juvenille jumble of feelings that are somehow responding to the fear that I am not good enough as is, that I am not pleasing, that I cannot possibly be worthy for more than five seconds at a time, I end up discovering something essential. I cannot step outside of me (not to mention I can't afford to). Not really.

I can pretend. I can dress the part, change a few externals, but I'll get tired and I'll come back home into this silly, messy, sometimes remotely and oddly artistic, occassionally lazy, seemingly television obsessed (as of late) person. I have to give into who I am. And if I can for once push the image of the person I should be out of my head, I feel comfortable inside my own spirit, my personality, my body, my boundaries. What's even more interesting, I suppose (something I'm discovering as I write this) is that I actually admire the women I compare myself to and I feel so terribly ashamed of myself because I haven't yet achieved what they have.

The women I am most jealous of, and feel most ashamed around as I feel like I'll always be too lazy to actually produce or complete or really do anything, are beautiful people. Really, they are lovely. They are artistic and they take care of things. And the reason they produce things, the reason they are so amazing is that they are able to detach themselves from the terrible web I'm still stuck in. This web of, "Am I good enough for this person, for this calling, for these friends?: I am still responding and reacting and looking around for feedback. I am connected to other people, even strangers, in that I am terrified of what they might think of me and yet, wholly dependend upon what they might think of me.

What is nice is that, as I think of the attributes of these strong, stable, solid women I'm jealous of, I come to realize that perhaps I am not so devoid of these qualities. Perhaps the vibrance these women carry, the spirit and soul these women exude is something I, sometimes, also radiate.

Instead of feeling jealous and avoidant toward these people, I really would like to learn from them. It would be beautiful, a tremendous feet for me, if I could simply drop the comparison and start believing that I have something to offer. It would be beautiful if I could decide to step out of the web and in that instant feel it lose its power and join again a more natural gravity, a more organic way of living, a way of life which values everything and everyone, a way of viewing oneself with utmost compassion and forgiveness.

I want to operate from my core. I want to know what I love and live for and go from there. I want to tap my desires and not pay attention to what gathers positive response. I want to go out, walking on my own feet, feeling connected to my body, feeling carried by some energy that rolls and wells and hums within rather than without.

This is what I've learned tonight. I want to make my spirit a home, and move about as if I am settled in me enough to not worry about stretching out hands, being ridiculously brave, taking little risks, and living more widely, into more light and movement.

100% Crisis and Here We Are

I am crazy-brained and cranky today. I have cussed out every driver on the street and cast unmentionable spells against anyone who gives me the remotest of dirty looks. I realize this feeling has lingered from yesterday, and though I know some of this has to do with the fact that the caffeine I have been devotedly consuming the past couple of days has not really absorbed into my body the way it normally does, I know the majority of my rotten mood is resulting from the seeds of hopelessness once again scattered over my sadly receptive soil.

I feel like there are weights hanging from my eyelids, and my forehead is host to a bag of sand so full it is bursting at the seams. I just want a job. Whine, whine. I just want to have my own one-room apartment with a few flowers in a vase by the window and some coffee that actually conjures some resemblance of vitality in my body. I just want a simple existence that's relatively stable. I feel selfish for this. But I don't care, anymore. Whine.

I think it's not so much not having the job, and so forth, but simply that I'm afraid I'll NEVER have a job. I'll NEVER move out and live on my own experiencing peace solidly for over a month. I'm afraid I'll NEVER feel remotely secure.

As I wrote that I realized something. A few months ago I told my friend Elizabeth on the phone that I doubted I would ever meet a man I thought worthwhile. That I'd never find someone truly interesting, and appealing in the whole romantic avenue. Truth is I have quite the crush at present, and so far, I find this person quite appealing.

When I told Elizabeth how I would NEVER meet someone I liked, she said, "Michelle! Hold on! Right now, write that down. Write down what you just said!"

I said, "Why?"

She replied, "Because, I know you're going to be proved wrong."

Thus, I have come to a new verdict, that it is simply foolish to believe in such absolute terms that nothing good is on it's way to you. It's foolish to believe that good is never ever never never in the wings. Somewhere something is hanging out, waiting for us to turn the corner, waiting for us to start down the road.

Earlier a friend was in the coffee shop and she was telling me about how her life has been in 100% crisis for the last year. And yes, TERRIBLE things happened. Things had gone to hell in a handbasket. All at once. But, as she said that: "100% Crisis," I thought, "and here you are, leaning over the counter, small coffee in hand, cell phone ringing, talking about graduate school and a new job, and all of the languages you plan to learn."

The shit is going down everywhere, and maybe there's no light at the end of the tunnel as far as we can see. Truth is, though hope seems far off, the tunnel isn't so bad. I'm still here, meeting people, making friends, developing unexpected crushes, feeling the warmth of generous strangers, and attempting creativity and peace despite potential crisis. Things will change. They always do.

I want to begin leaning into the notion that there are no absolute negatives. There are terrible things that happen; unspeakable awful things. But there are always bedside flowers, cups of tea, kind faces, offers of forgiveness, a ten dollar bill hidden by a friend in the glovebox, coupons, second and third and fourth chances, moments for prayer or meditation or silence. Time can't be filled so much that on a single breath we can't pull focus (an idea I got from Julia Cameron), we can't slip out into a more open space, and let our spirits spread out. There are opportunities for good, for small acts of generosity or appreciation, for closeness, for affection, and peace.

May you and I find something in the dry spell.

This Christmas: Walking the Walls Down

Today I am sitting in one of my favorite coffee houses, trying to conjure a sense of hope, trying to lift my own spirits and connect with whatever magic it would take to make some of the people I love, and myself, feel secure. I remembered Daisy May's music, particularly songs like, "Like This," and "Simple Secrets of My Heart." They are making their way through the winding tunnels of my spirit, digging down into the sore spots.

I feel like everyone's taking a beating. So much good is running through the air, leaping into our lives, and at the same time, we can't claim it, because there's so much worry, so much insanity, so much that must be cleaned up, repaired, financially supported. It is unfair.

And just as I typed that, one of my best friends and favorite people in the universe came up behind me, and hugged me, and wow...it is so good to know I am loved, and to know that I love so deeply and freely. It's amazing how much love can change you, as cliche as that phrase is. It's true. I am very different, and revel in how many doors have opened beneath my skin.

Which reminds me of why I wanted to write this post in the first place. I've been scanning blogs, specifically maganda.org, where she wrote a letter to her baby son, and at the end, she wrote something about how she loves this holiday because it's when God expresses his big love for us. I don't know why, but my eyes kind of welled up. I don't think I was thinking about God's love. But just the warmth of love in general.

Like, despite all the hardship and restriction, we can still share, and we do. We keep moving, and hopefully we keep moving nearer, exploring and opening ourselves to the gift of other people: their views, thoughts, scars, feelings. Within the past couple of years, after breaking off a rather serious relationship, the word share became such a vibrant, deep, breathing word. It was something I couldn't really do with the person I was with. And so, now, I love that word.

It explains exactly what I want most. To share moments, words, couches, glasses of water, blankets, hugs, bodies, stories, pain, hope. I usually think of it in the future tense as if I'm excited to share, someday. But the truth is, I'm sharing now. In this moment, with Chase, at a coffee shop. Last night with a bunch of charming strangers. With my sister when we both get home late. Sharing stories and poems and questions with David. Car rides and tears and a giant pile of blankets for a meteor shower with Paula. Scrabble boards and hookah and good wine with Laura. Three hour phone conversations with Elizabeth.

I have something magical right now. My life is full and wide and it is so terrifying and unpredictable. But what I know is, I am so happy with what it is right now. I hope for more. I want security and things to keep evolving and becoming more exciting, and more financially stable, but right now, it is still good.

And perhaps Christmas can still mean something for me this year, when I think of it this way. That this abstract concept of getting close, sharing life, risking a little more than usual, really trying to see deeply into another, is something I can't explain without spirituality.

Lately I have felt this huge discomfort with my beliefs. Not the beliefs themselves. I can't even begin to think about them, because I'm trying to stay outside. It's like I'm pressing my arms out, trying to feel my way around these ideas, and I try and keep my heart as far from it as possible. I'm not so good at breaking open. And whenever I begin thinking about my spirituality, give way to the first moments of prayer, begin to disclose some sore spot to someone else, some tender insecurity, I quickly urge the walls up. I lock. I can't get close.

This Christmas, maybe for a few moments, I hope to let myself open up. Whenever I enter prayer, actually go there, lay open and listen, the unexpected happens. I am never berated, and I am often urged, deep in my spirit, not to feel guilty, but to feel strong and able, to feel soft and accepted and lovely. So with God, with some people too, this is what I hope to do: when the stone begins building in my back, muscles stacking like bricks, I hope to breathe slower, walk the walls down with slow sweet silent words, and remember what I want most: to share life, to allow love to move back and forth as it should.

Kitchen Experiments and Remebering Who I Am

Tonight I am finding my people pleasing attitude exhausting, as I'm rather tired of always trying to figure out the geometry of what people want, straining my body and brain and spirit and soul to make myself into that shape, and fit perfectly. I'm realizing that though it is exhausting, while it's happening, I almost want to perpetuate it. As long as I'm not quite the person yet, there's work to be done. I can avoid my life: my art, my writing, my heart, my soul, the time to stand in my body and be still there, the time to know that this is alright and okay and even nice. It is difficult to stop and do what I should do, and what, deep down, I most want to. It is difficult to give up on the game, to trust that some people see through your bullshit and shape-shifting, and just like you. They don't care. They just want to sit with you. Get comfortable. Get cozy. Be.

So, tonight, driving home from the coffee shop, I began playing Deb Talan, my usual favorite when these thoughts come on, when I begin thinking about loving myself, as corny as that may sound. I begin playing her and Daisy May and Rosie Thomas whenever it's time to speak my words to no one but myself. To write the silly big hard truths as plain as they exist in my head. To not doctor everything up, not even tell the complex story of it all. It is the feeling I become interested in. The big worries. The hopes. The fears. What's rooted deep.

I'm sitting in the dark, now, typing this while listening to my little potato dish simmer on the stove. I soaked it in soy sauce, of course, and spices. I love the slicing vegetables. I miss that. I miss that about living in my duplex, having enough money, earlier this summer. I would buy produce, tons of it, and I'd slice everything up. I experiemented, mostly. I learned that I love red peppers. And I love onions. A lot.

I love how calming simple acts can be. I love the slower motion my brain moves in when I'm doing something like slicing a potato, turning it on its side, slicing it again. I love using my palm to slide the whole mess of cubes and odd shapes into the pan. I love pouring olive oil, and the careful sprinkling of garlic.

I soften when I'm cooking. I get quiet. I remember who I am, and that nobody can hear my thoughts. Nobody's watching. I can be unsexy. I can be uncool. I can be boring and rather unintelligent. But I do develop a sense that I am good. I am worthy and once again, I like myself. I can enjoy my own company. Time cooking by myself, time making art, time writing out the truths as messy and simple as they may be, is time very well spent.

Tonight I remember after quite some time of forgetting that I like this place. I can forgive myself for getting caught up in the taxing acrobatics of trying to be what he or she or they might want. I am myself as ridiculous and soft and delicate as I sometimes am. I stand in my skin and enjoy being here.

Winter: Hemmed In

All this sudden snow has hemmed me in, and surprisingly, I feel warm. Typically, I enjoy the roominess of summer; that I am able to go out, lay out on grass, spread. Spring and summer allow me leave the stiff geometry of ordinary living and feel shapeless, large, as if my spirit cannot be contained by my body and needs the wideness of beaches or blankets in the park.

But, as this first snow came down, I felt different. I felt hemmed in, containted. I wasn't slammed with claustrophobia. I am confident the world will spring to life again. But for now, this place, this new shape I find myself in is homey. It feels more like I've been wrapped up, and am still warm in some sort of embrace. This winter room, my spirit, isn't grey, dark, thick with depression, but it is clean, buzzing with a slow kind of energy, and there are lights (lamps and candles and strands of dripping bulbs) dispelling shadows from the corners, compelling them to dance toward the center.

Perhaps part of this "hemmed in" feeling is also coming from considering not applying to graduate school this winter, but waiting. I realized the other day while driving with a friend that deciding to wait to apply, to go off somewhere else and get caught up in writing constantly, trying to fit the program's formula, trying to figure out how to conform to the shape, the style that professors like, that publishers like, feels so right. I am always looking into the future, my mind frantically probing for what will get me to where everyone might think I should be. I am reaching always.

Considering not going to graduate school yet makes me come home. I have to be present, because I have to start living for me, now. Not when I've achieved this or that. But now. As I am. I have to apply for jobs. I have things I need to do. I have writing to continue honing. I have creating to do. BUT, my creating, my art won't be geared for a program. It will be mine. Perhaps I'll get it published. I will try. But, I won't be basing my worth on my acceptance, yet. And perhaps I'll make room for being me for no reason at all. I can lay out my art supplies, play in the words and the paint and the characters and the ink, and just be.

I love the thought that we are valuable regardless of our achievements. Yes, it is good to be active, and to take care of business. It is good to be responsible. I love these things. I like taking care of myself. But, I don't like hanging my worth, my life's worth on whether or not I'm impressing people, whether or not I'm making the grade.

I think of doing things on my own, like taking a bath, or stretching on the floor with a few candles lit listening to music, or painting something random, journaling, going for a walk, and how time spent on such things is not wasted. I am good, still, in my everyday living.

Truth is, I love the adventure, but I don't want the adventure all the time. I want it sometimes. But lately, I just want home. I want curling in warm spaces. I want closeness with sweet people. I want hot chocolate, and a long sweater, and work that doesn't have my muscles contorting, doing unnatural acrobatics beneath my skin. I want books, and baths, and cutting vegetables and smelling them in the oven, their scents breathing into other scents: oregano, garlic, olive oil. I want calmness. I want to feel somewhat enclosed. At least for a few months.

And so this is what has happened: the snow has fallen, winter cupped her cool hands around us and it is not crippling. It is not terrible. It is another opportunity to find something sweet, to stretch blankets around each other, to talk quietly, and appreciate what warmth we are able to find or make. Even this is a gift.

Locked Rooms

Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote, "You are so young. You stand before beginnings. I would like to beg of you, dear Friend, as well as I can, to have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms, like books written in a foreign language."

I am standing before many many locked doors, at present. And yes, it is terrifying. My hands run along the handles, how many times? I think of rooms in my old house, my parents' house, the house I grew up in. I think of rooms I rarely entered. I think of the front hall with the oak chest, and the pictures my mother had setting up on top. The pictures of her mother who died before any of us could know her at all. I think of the pictures of the family that has since abandoned us, and the family that is still firm at our sides. I remember my mother's bookshelf to the side, and a dresser full of random odds and ends. I rarely entered the room, and so it seemed to me this magical place. There was an old hat rack in there with my grandfather's hats that sometimes we would try on. The room was full of antiquity, and yet, with all mysteries so near to our hearts, the real intrigue is how these old objects, these photos, and more importantly the records of these people, enhance and change and hold meaning in our lives.

The locked rooms, the rooms rarely entered, or not at all, might speak the most into our lives, might tell us the stories of our pasts, our presents, or futures. I run my finger along the doors I look at now: careers, future artistic projects, future friendships, a current spirit lifting crush, and I feel all this energy coursing. And at the same time, immense dread.

What will happen? Which doors do I open, and which doors can I? How long until someone comes to the other side and pops the lock, pulls the chain, removes the chair wedged firmly under the knob. And is there a way to speak to that someone, to change the course of things. And who holds the big wand. Who is at the controls?

I want, I want, so many things. I want mind crushing kisses. I want to lay deep into another human being and not feel like I'm wrong, not have to try and keep my eyes from darting for escape. I want to know what my hands will make. I want to know where I'll be so I can orchestrate the rest of it.

Rainer Maria Rilke goes on to write, "Do not now look for the answers. They could not be given to you, because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything...You need to live the questions. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer some distant day."

I'm glad there are doors at all. Questions. Big mysteries hanging around in our lives, waiting to surprise us. There are doors we HAVE to open. Only our touch will do the trick. There are choices WE must make, which no one can make for us, and steps only our feet can take if we are to move at all, move anywhere.

The doors say to me, Sweetheart, there is a story. There are rooms you have not seen, but will see. You are walking through new rooms already, and Wow, the windows cast so much light.

Here it is. Cheers. We're standing on so many threshholds, and one day we will pass into new spaces, and we will find at least a few of our answers there.