“I stand in the mist and cry, thinking of myself standing in the mist and crying, and wondering if I will ever be able to use this experience in a book.”
Me too, Erica Jong, me too.
Stepping Into the Arena.
It is late on a Thursday night and I become aware of the outside light and how dusk subtly unveils herself over this little town of Pinole. The air behind these cafe windows is cool and crisp, and I sit here inside cozied up in the back corner with my latte and journal, where I've been for hours, writing. My hair smells of espresso and I notice how the closer the clock ticks to 7 pm, the more I am racing heart and twisting gut and short inhales. I have come here to write, yes, but really, I've come here to read. To read my own work during open mic.
A lil' caffeinated inspiration...
I watch nervously as a man in a checkered flannel shirt stands up on the stage and strums his guitar. All I notice is his greasy hair and long beard and think to myself that he's the kind of person I wouldn't want to sit next to on BART. My mind wanders because I'm concerned that my piece isn't appropriate for this audience, and how I've never been to an open mic here. I wonder if it's too late to dig through the weaved straw basket at the front of the stage and crumple up the piece of paper with my name written on it and hide it away in my pocket.
It is always easier and safer and more comfortable to hide.
My thoughts are interrupted by an awkward silence. Then a strum. The guitarist has forgotten his lyrics. He fumbles around. We wait in anticipation. He finds his rhythm again and we all relax in our seats. Suddenly, I ignore the beard and the strange genre of music and I just see him- in all of his imperfection- and recognize his humanity, rawness and vulnerability on that stage. I recognize beauty. I hear myself clapping louder than the others around me because I am applauding his ability- more than anything- to show up and share his truth with this world.
Then, it is my turn and I feel the eyes on me as I walk towards the stage, adjust the microphone and sit on the wooden stool. I look out into the audience and am greeted with the eager eyes of young and old, men and women. I take a deep breath and my heart feels a strange calmness as I speak- these words that were conceived in the depths on my journal pages, words so near and dear to my heart that for the first time are being birthed out into the world, gasping for life-giving breath as they are caught and received and cradled by this captive audience.
I ignore my shaking legs and sweaty palms and smile in an effort to steady my voice. I continue to read, "Perhaps things aren't falling apart, maybe they are falling together," and I hear a voice from the darkness rumble, "HELL YES!" and suddenly it is no longer 'me' up here and 'them' out there- we are all connected. This umbilical cord of words allowing them to hear my truth, my heartbreak, my hope and I just pray from underneath the warm spotlights that somehow these words will offer a light to direct someone back home.
I breathe a sigh of relief when it's over, and I don't really hear the applause, I am marinading in my own feelings of sheer joy, for choosing courage over fear. A woman grabs my hand as I make my way back to my seat and says, "Thank you for sharing your words," and that alone makes it all worth it, stepping into that arena, daring greatly.
The guitarist comes up to me at the end of the night as he is walking away, we exchange affirming words and he tells me, "I really, really enjoyed your poem." And I nod graciously and think about how all of life is poetry- some of the lines ebb and flow and some don't rhyme at all, but somehow it all still works. I feel light and fluttery and alive. Suddenly, the room feels more expansive and I am aware of how spacious the world feels when you can freely express who you are, no longer bound or imprisoned by what other people will think.
We all have a unique voice and talents and words and stories to share with the world. Fear paralyzes most of us, but regardless of that, we must step into the arena, to dare greatly instead of looking in from the outside, wondering what would have happened if we actually showed up for our own lives. You'll find that once you enter into the arena, even though failure may still exist, you will experience a deeper contentment and freedom and respect for yourself.
The beauty of this Truth is that you don't have to write your name on a piece of paper and drop it into a basket, waiting for it to be called.
And you're not limited to only five minutes. Your entire lifetime can be your open mic.
We're all in this together. And if you forget, just look up. I'll be the one clapping the loudest from the back.
THINK.
I've learned lately how powerful our words can be. As a little girl, I loved the book "Silver Boxes" by Florence Littauer. It was such a strong visual that our words should be like little silver boxes with bows on top, making the receiver feel loved and warm.
Yesterday I spotted this on the trail and it seemed oddly out of place- bright pink letters splashed across a pipe, tucked underneath the moss and leaves of the dirt trail. But it caught my eye, and made me pause. Which is so valuable in this life where we are constantly rushing around, grabbing our coffee and not making eye contact with the barista and jabbering on our phones and erupting reactively with hurtful words that somehow slipped out of our mouths in the moment- so fast that we couldn't catch or retract them. And like arrows, they had already pierced the heart of the listener, spreading their poison into the veins.
So before you speak, THINK:
Is it True?
Is it Helpful?
Is it Inspiring?
Is it Necessary?
Is it Kind?
This is a good litmus test. Because our words form our thoughts, which ultimately turn into action.
So even if it seems as unnatural and out of place as those bright pink letters smack dab in the middle of a trail, try it. THINK before you speak. Who knows, the words you speak into someone may be the tiny acorns of life, and years later when you revisit that trail, you'll see how that mighty oak tree really did grow.
Yesterday I spotted this on the trail and it seemed oddly out of place- bright pink letters splashed across a pipe, tucked underneath the moss and leaves of the dirt trail. But it caught my eye, and made me pause. Which is so valuable in this life where we are constantly rushing around, grabbing our coffee and not making eye contact with the barista and jabbering on our phones and erupting reactively with hurtful words that somehow slipped out of our mouths in the moment- so fast that we couldn't catch or retract them. And like arrows, they had already pierced the heart of the listener, spreading their poison into the veins.
So before you speak, THINK:
Is it True?
Is it Helpful?
Is it Inspiring?
Is it Necessary?
Is it Kind?
This is a good litmus test. Because our words form our thoughts, which ultimately turn into action.
So even if it seems as unnatural and out of place as those bright pink letters smack dab in the middle of a trail, try it. THINK before you speak. Who knows, the words you speak into someone may be the tiny acorns of life, and years later when you revisit that trail, you'll see how that mighty oak tree really did grow.
The Journey.
Some deep truths from Mary Oliver…
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice-
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stories.
But little by lithe,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save
the only life you could save.
Tonight I watched a segment with Tom Shadyac, who presented the topic of polarity- light/dark, life/death, abundance/loss. We are taught from the beginning to run from trouble, disaster, danger, disturbance- but in reality, this is the heart of all growth, of all of life. It's what makes us better artists, better poets, better writers, better humans. How can we understand abundance if we have not experienced loss? How can we fully grasp the beauty of trust if we haven't first tasted the sting of dishonesty? Mary Oliver shared with Tom Shadyac that her poem "The Journey" was birthed from one of her most darkest and painful experiences. And yet, out of such a dark seed bloomed one of her most famous poems. It's true, all of life, with all of its duality, is a living and breathing art form in one way or another.
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice-
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stories.
But little by lithe,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save
the only life you could save.
Tonight I watched a segment with Tom Shadyac, who presented the topic of polarity- light/dark, life/death, abundance/loss. We are taught from the beginning to run from trouble, disaster, danger, disturbance- but in reality, this is the heart of all growth, of all of life. It's what makes us better artists, better poets, better writers, better humans. How can we understand abundance if we have not experienced loss? How can we fully grasp the beauty of trust if we haven't first tasted the sting of dishonesty? Mary Oliver shared with Tom Shadyac that her poem "The Journey" was birthed from one of her most darkest and painful experiences. And yet, out of such a dark seed bloomed one of her most famous poems. It's true, all of life, with all of its duality, is a living and breathing art form in one way or another.
Write It Down.
"Pay attention to the weather, to what breaks your heart, to what lifts your heart. Write it down."
Today was all about exploring the coastal trail, sitting, writing and moving on to a new spot and repeating.
I find it interesting how words easily come in and out, mostly steady like the waves. Sometimes there will be a bigger wave that crashes harder- sometimes it is painful, sometimes it is inspiring. The day was gorgeous, full of pelicans and seagulls and sand and scattered white fluffy clouds and hot chowder and delicious seafood.
My 7-year-old niece got a hold of the book of poems I wrote for my dad's Christmas present. And now she is officially obsessed with poetry. It's endearing, but she also keeps me on my toes, constantly asking me to tell her a poem. On Friday, my brain started to hurt after awhile and I wanted to eat my dinner, so I changed it into a game where I would make up one poem stanza, and then pass the mic. This would give me 30 seconds to get in another bite of food before it was my turn again.
Last week, my mom took her to Lawrence Hall of Science and all she wanted to do was write a poem. So she sat there and began to write, "It was a blustery autumn day…" when my mom answered, "Kaia, it's winter time." She very matter-of-factly responded, "It's my poem. I can write whatever I want to."
She's only seven. And she's brilliant.
So the next time you feel stuck creatively, take her advice. Don't feel obligated to conform.
Write whatever you want to.
You will be pleasantly surprised.
-Ellen Meloy
 |
| #oceantherapy |
 |
| "I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order." -John Burroughs |
I find it interesting how words easily come in and out, mostly steady like the waves. Sometimes there will be a bigger wave that crashes harder- sometimes it is painful, sometimes it is inspiring. The day was gorgeous, full of pelicans and seagulls and sand and scattered white fluffy clouds and hot chowder and delicious seafood.
 |
| Sunset from the deck of Sam's Chowder House |
My 7-year-old niece got a hold of the book of poems I wrote for my dad's Christmas present. And now she is officially obsessed with poetry. It's endearing, but she also keeps me on my toes, constantly asking me to tell her a poem. On Friday, my brain started to hurt after awhile and I wanted to eat my dinner, so I changed it into a game where I would make up one poem stanza, and then pass the mic. This would give me 30 seconds to get in another bite of food before it was my turn again.
Last week, my mom took her to Lawrence Hall of Science and all she wanted to do was write a poem. So she sat there and began to write, "It was a blustery autumn day…" when my mom answered, "Kaia, it's winter time." She very matter-of-factly responded, "It's my poem. I can write whatever I want to."
She's only seven. And she's brilliant.
So the next time you feel stuck creatively, take her advice. Don't feel obligated to conform.
Write whatever you want to.
You will be pleasantly surprised.
Intention Setting.
"I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes. Because if you make mistakes,
then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living,
pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world.
You're doing things you've never done before, and more importantly, you're Doing Something."
-Neil Gaiman
 |
| There was a lot of 'pushing myself' on today's New Year's Ride. So good for the soul. And the legs. |
January 1st. I'm so over New Year's Resolutions, goal-setting, blah blah blah. At the end of the day, I've realized that it's not necessarily the end-product or goal that we seek, but rather the feeling. Quitting smoking allows you to feel freedom. That trip to New Zealand to visit your family allows you to feel connected. Crossing the finish line of that Ironman allows you to feel strong, brave and courageous.
Rather than working from hard and specific goals to get desired feelings, what if we switched things around and started with the feelings? This is an expanded perspective, but focusing on the feelings FIRST will cultivate much more serendipity in our lives that will ultimately fulfill those desires in ways that we could have never possibly imagined.
No more New Year's Resolutions for me. Just intention-setting, if you will. I am cultivating these feelings in my life for 2015-
Creativity.
Connection.
Ease.
Abundance.
Gratitude.
Intimacy.
Service.
Joy.
I encourage you to do the same. Write them down, and see how all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve them. Ready??
Just Write.
"Your feet are swollen, you need to make a dentist appointment, the dog needs to be let out, you have to defrost the chicken and make a phone call to your cousin in Boston, you're worried about your mother's glaucoma, you forgot to put film in the camera, Safeway has a sale on solid white tuna, you are waiting for a job offer, you just bought a computer and you have to unpack it. You have to start eating sprouts and stop eating doughnuts, you lost your favorite pen, and the cat peed on your current notebook.
Take out another notebook, pick up another pen, and just write, just write, just write. In the middle of the world, make one positive step. In the center of chaos, make one definitive act. Just write. Say yes, stay alive, be awake. Just write. Just write. Just write."
-Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones
Yesterday I filled the last page in my journal, which I started writing in on January 1st. What an amazing year of writing it's been, as metaphors, poetry, to-do lists and miracles filled those lines on each page. I am astonished at how such a simple of act of picking up the pen each day has allowed me to discover so much about myself. So even if I slept poorly and I have a million emails to return and programs to write and shoes to lace up and bike tires to pump up and green smoothies to make and hair to curl and eyeliner to apply, I pick up the pen and write. Just write. Just write. Just write.
Take out another notebook, pick up another pen, and just write, just write, just write. In the middle of the world, make one positive step. In the center of chaos, make one definitive act. Just write. Say yes, stay alive, be awake. Just write. Just write. Just write."
-Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones
 |
| 2014- a year in review... |
Yesterday I filled the last page in my journal, which I started writing in on January 1st. What an amazing year of writing it's been, as metaphors, poetry, to-do lists and miracles filled those lines on each page. I am astonished at how such a simple of act of picking up the pen each day has allowed me to discover so much about myself. So even if I slept poorly and I have a million emails to return and programs to write and shoes to lace up and bike tires to pump up and green smoothies to make and hair to curl and eyeliner to apply, I pick up the pen and write. Just write. Just write. Just write.
Vegan Gluten-free Ginger Cookies.
Even if you're bloated from eating too much pumpkin pie over Christmas and the thought of another leftover See's Candies makes you nauseous, you can still enjoy one of these cookies and go about the rest of your day without a sugar hangover or feeling guilty.
The first time I made these…well, I don't really want to talk about it. So, after some tips from PK, the second time around I used Bob's Red Mill gluten-free all-purpose flour, as well as a silpat mat (
instead of an air-bake pan)
, and had her magical ingredient of ground cardamom.
(Don't ask how I attempted it with cardamom pods the first time around).
INGREDIENTS:
-2 cups all-purpose gluten-free flour
-3/4 c. coconut sugar
-1 tsp baking powder
-1 tsp baking soda
-1/4 tsp salt
-1 Tbsp ground ginger
-1 1/2 tsp ground cardamom
-1/2 c. extra virgin coconut oil, melted
-1/4 c. dark molasses
-1 tsp vanilla extract
-3 Tbsp almond milk
-Turbinado sugar (for sprinkling on top)
Directions:
1. In a large bowl, mix together the dry ingredients. Add the coconut oil, molasses, milk and vanilla extract and beat until just blended. Cover and refrigerate dough for 30 minutes.
2. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Line a baking sheet with a silpat mat.
3. Roll dough into small balls and place 2 inches apart. Sprinkle lightly with turbinado sugar.
4. Bake for 11-14 minutes. Let cool for 2 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.
These are so delicious, and they also freeze well. Enjoy!!
Merry and Bright.
While cresting the hill near Hiddenbrooke this morning, this Irish blessing came into my head. It seemed fitting as I pedaled behind my two girlfriends, into the sunshine and with the wind finally at our backs…
May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be ever at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face
and the rain fall softly on your field…
Christmas morning miles...
May your days be merry and bright
And may all your Christmases be white (or full of sunshine and green hills)...
Planting Seeds from Brokenness.
Beannacht.
Today has been a whirlwind of errands, including trips to the bank, installing Sirius in my new car, troubleshooting an alternator on my old car, phone calls for tech support in India for a printer (we bonded over my random Hindi phrases and love for kitchari), and organizing some paperwork that needed to get done. It seems like a lot of busyness in an already busy season, so tonight I just lit some candles, played some piano, and worked on some art projects. Clearing the mind, clearing the clutter. I feel better already. I'll leave you tonight with a gem of a poem which concluded last night's winter solstice poetry reading at Point Reyes Books. Such a cozy venue, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with fellow poets, reading from a faint book light, as the rest of the store was illuminated by candlelight. Beannacht is Gaelic for "blessing"- may you be equally blessed by these words…
On the day when
The weight deadens
On your shoulders
And you stumble,
May the clay dance
To balance you.
And when your eyes
Freeze behind
The grey window
And the ghost of loss
Gets into you,
May a flock of colours,
Indigo, red, green
And azure blue,
Come to awaken in you
A meadow of delight.
When the canvas frays
In the currach of thought
And a stain of ocean
Blackens beneath you,
May there come across the waters
A path of yellow moonlight
To bring you safely home.
May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
May the clarity of light be yours,
May the fluency of the ocean be yours,
May the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
Wind work these words
Of love around you,
An invisible cloak,
To mind your life.
-John O'Donohue
 |
| The cozy atmosphere from inside Point Reyes Books... |
On the day when
The weight deadens
On your shoulders
And you stumble,
May the clay dance
To balance you.
And when your eyes
Freeze behind
The grey window
And the ghost of loss
Gets into you,
May a flock of colours,
Indigo, red, green
And azure blue,
Come to awaken in you
A meadow of delight.
When the canvas frays
In the currach of thought
And a stain of ocean
Blackens beneath you,
May there come across the waters
A path of yellow moonlight
To bring you safely home.
May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
May the clarity of light be yours,
May the fluency of the ocean be yours,
May the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
Wind work these words
Of love around you,
An invisible cloak,
To mind your life.
-John O'Donohue