The Heart Opener

And then finally, I bowed down to the goddess of the Costa Rican jungle, offering up my heart, letting her rip it out, beating in hand, and set it on the altar to the Universe.

Last summer, I decided that I wanted more yoga in my life. I don’t know exactly what sparked this idea, but it came nonetheless, and I just surrendered to the call and booked the first yoga teacher training program that came up on my screen. Something inside of me whispered that it was time—time for me to get inside my body, to connect to my physical form. I didn’t really understand it then, but there was monumental importance in that half-hearted decision. There was divine wisdom hidden in what seemed like an impulsive action.

Mornings at Samasati Nature Retreat started at 5:25. As my alarm went off in the dark, I shuffled through the room, religiously stubbing my toe on the corner of my roommates bed. I shared the little casita with two Swedish blondes, two of many new sisters that I would grow to love deeply. Our nest was perched on a hill in the rain forest, immersed in the natural habitat of toucans, howler monkeys, and sloths, among many insects and reptiles (some of whom decided to visit us on occasion, only to be coaxed back outside).

As 6am approached, the sun started to rise and I headed down the stone path to the meditation hall for the first 2 hour yoga practice. Meditation, breathing and sweating followed, along with letting go and being still in the afterglow. Stretching tired and sore muscles, paying attention to the words as directed, trying to remember left from right, up from down, and control this body of mine. My overactive brain tried to make up for lackadaisical physicalities, but efforts were always in vain. It soon became clear that I had to let go of my mind and let my body flow if I was to survive until breakfast.

No matter what confusion I left on the mat in the morning, a spread of tropical fruit, Caribbean delicacies, and fresh squeezed juice was waiting for me as we finished our morning practice. The day went by in a blur of lectures, lunch, and more lectures, until the “auspicious hour” approached, when the afternoon light started to dim ever so slightly and the magical energy of anticipation fell over us all. We left our shoes on the porch and shuffled back into the hall. We took our places in the dome shaped space and waited for further instructions. Outside and inside merged through the veil of screens. All went silent. The students were ready. The teacher would arrive.

On some nights we were lead by a mad scientist of a yogi. Gray hair in every direction, a wide smile, limbs twisted in contortions, and a strong Italian accent. He instructed us to bend our bodies in ways that they weren’t designed to bend, and we were sometimes able to comply. As the days ticked on we saw ourselves grow braver and stronger, facing his monumental demands with a laugh of determination. We saw ourselves move from novices to dedicated disciples of yoga.

He pushed the limits of what was acceptable, what was possible, what was normal. We danced ecstatically, screamed at the top of our lungs, sat completely still, and balanced in silence for hours. We used ancient methods to release the demons that were hiding inside. We enticed them to come out, sometimes gently and sometimes with force, and they dissolved into the humid air of the jungle.

On other nights, another type of experience took place in that wooden womb.  As we all sat at the ready, cross legged at the front of our mats, we waited for a delicately framed woman with long dark hair, smiling eyes, and wisdom beyond her years. Her sweet voice moved us all through the motions, in unison, energy flowing freely, as she sent her magic down to the caverns in the center of our chests. We felt the pang of vulnerability as she gently tapped the edge of her chisel, splitting the sternum open, pulling back the layers of hurt, and pouring in a giant pitcher of light. The walls that we built up through the decades, the barriers we were so determined to keep intact, the bunkers we set up to shelter who we are, they were no contest for the pure love that she managed to channel, connecting us back to the source of it all, from the universe on down.

My time in the jungle of Costa Rica, it has changed me on a deep level. Where there was once disconnection, there is now coherency. I am body, mind, and soul, all integrated into one beautiful human that can finally hold the light it was designed to hold.

At last, I am able to love—unconditional, without attachment, truly, deeply, completely. I have been waiting for this moment for a very long time.  Longer than my 35 years of life can explain, longer than I can comprehend in the finite of human time. This transmutation goes beyond my experience, and I can feel it’s impact through the lightness that comes with letting go of generations of pain that have been carried around unknowingly, unassumingly, but at the cost of everything that matters.

I am filled to the top with gratitude for every one of my sisters that shared in this experience, to the teachers that led us, to the jungle that embraced us, to the earth that shifted us, to the universe that re-birthed us, and to the light that is always within us.

Standing in the Dark Unknown

I stand under a blanket of stars, the waves lulling in the distance, and I observe the night. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. The stars reveal themselves to me, more little points of light scattered among the black. I feel the vastness and I wonder at this gift, the gift of the unknown.

I used to be afraid of the dark. I used to tell myself, “Something could be lurking there and I might not be ready. It might startle me and my heart might race. I might feel something I am not prepared to feel.” I used to bring a flashlight with me as I walked on this path through the woods, back to the campfire. I didn’t really need to light the trail so intensely, with the harsh LED beam. I didn’t really need to know what was coming so far down the road.

Plenty of times, I have searched for understanding, for knowing. I’ve wanted to know where the path of life was taking me. I’ve desired to make an informed choice and gather all of the facts. I deliberated, and weighed in the pros and the cons. I tried to figure things out. I made a choice based on reason, wanting to find a solution so badly that I did so based on what my 5 senses implied. I hated being in the dark so much that I decided to shine the bright light of my rational mind on the problem. I felt so uncomfortable in the unknowing that I did anything to escape it.

I didn’t come to earth to experience a life of omniscience. My human experience takes place in a space of not-knowing, and then experiencing, and then realizing, what is true. It happens when the knowing comes in it’s own time, when I am ready--when I give myself time to adjust to the shadows.

I am not running from the unknown anymore. I am staying here, in the dark, for as long as it takes. Until I feel as comfortable here as I once did in my mother's womb, when everything was completely uncertain, but I trusted anyway. I was created from the unknown and to it I will return, to be swallowed up into the sea of mystery.

And the waves keep crashing, and the stars keep shining, until all at once, the sun rises over the horizon--and it illuminates the secrets that have been so beautifully hidden, sleeping, dreaming, through the night.

Creating a Clearing

"Do not try to save the whole world, or do anything grandiose. Instead, create a clearing in the dense forest of your life and wait there patiently, until the song that is your life falls into your own cupped hands and you recognize and greet it. Only then will you know how to give yourself to this world so worth of rescue."

-Martha Postlewaite

 

The leaves of the ancient oaks rustle with the wind as I sit on a folding chair in the middle of the woods. Among the palmettos and the magnolias, I plant myself in the sandy soil. It’s just cool enough to sit without a sweater and bask in the sunshine. The oak leaves filter the sun’s rays as the shadow plays in the sand. Florida in the Fall. It’s perfect, really.

Last week we picked up our new home on wheels, a 2014 Mercedes Sprinter van, and started the process of getting ready for our next trip. We are used to this kind of sorting, the kind where things are examined for usefulness and joy-factor and then designated to the appropriate pile. The mountains of contents start to grow as suitcases are emptied and belongings are corralled from closets.

My parent’s driveway was soon strewn with hiking boots, fishing poles, computer cables, and books. The piles became steeper as the day turned to evening. One heap for storage, one to give away, and one to take with us on our next adventure. After the last t-shirt was sorted into it’s appropriate pile, passing through the hands in the quality control center of travel, it was time to start to fill the bleached birch cabinets in our new home.

It didn’t take long until the mountains were moved, the driveway was clear, and we were waving goodbye to my parents. We were off. It was time to take the next step, and return to vanlife once again. We haven’t ventured far though. Still close to home, we’ve spent the first week in our van settled down in the peace of a Florida State Park, filling up the tank. We build fires every evening and walk on the beach. I write, light candles, and drink tea under the protection of the oaks. I visit family and cuddle my dog. It’s like normal life, but simpler, pared back, and more deliberate.

Since I’ve been back “on the road” I have felt inspiration coming back once again. I have had more space around me, more place for messages from the Divine to arrive. They come in the form of a clear blue sky, the crashing of waves, a sleepy eyed chihuahua, and the scruffy beard of the man I love. The messages that say, “slow down, listen, and remember you are so much more than the sum of the checks on your to-do-list."

After the Battle is Over

Sometimes it takes all our strength to fight for something dear to our hearts, for something we know is right. We muster up our courage, step out in faith, take a stand, persevere. Despite our effort, we can’t always win these battles. Sometimes we find ourselves on the other side of victory. The battleground becomes a patch of scorched earth. There is a gaping hole where hope once lived.

This emptiness leaves us wondering: How could something have gone so wrong? Who is to blame for of this injustice? Why is this happening? After wrestling with the past for long enough, we know what’s done is done.  But that doesn’t make the sadness go away. We mourn the loss of our dream and the beautiful change it could have brought, if things would have just been different—if things had been fair.

In these moments of confusion, we must listen closely. Not to what the outside world shouts through its megaphone, but what our hearts are whispering. We are called to a space of stillness, where we tilt our heads to hear the faint voice of our own knowing.

We need to let ourselves drift, moving where the wind takes us, to rise by the power of the thermal lift that effortlessly pulls us upward. From up there we can see the truth: that we are so much greater than the games we play. From that perspective we catch a glimpse of the immense power we have inside, the power that is so much stronger than the stories that we tell ourselves.

We allow ourselves to put down our pickets and sit on the curb, letting our shoulders slump forward, exhaling and releasing it all. We surrender everything and give it to the Source of all things. We put down our spears, weave through the crowd and come back to the comfort of our home inside. We give ourselves permission to retreat without judgment and can, just for this moment, stop fighting, and rest. After the battle is over, we realize that it’s not mandatory to do things by force anymore: pushing ourselves to be responsible citizens, fix the problems, be informed, make our voices heard.

Right now, you can let go of the those heavy boxes, the ones containing the responsibility to fight for your cause, the bitterness of defeat, the grinning and bearing it despite your pain. I give you my blessing to put down the weight of the world and float up, expanding and realizing that it is not your fight. Your battle wounds might sting, but they remind you that healing is the only solution right now. They tell you that there is a better way to make a change, and it starts inside of you.

You no longer need to take a stand, to force an uprising to happen. You can open the door just a little and let the change seep in, permeate your bones, and let it become you. Then you can allow it to wash over you like a sheet of rain, pouring out from the dark sky, cleansing all of the hurt. You can let the change you want to see in this world start inside of you, and you can do that right now.

You are allowed to listen to that part of you that is disappointed and bruised, and hold it tight, gently rocking it to sleep. You can get out of your own head and back into your heart, where you remember your ability to manifest beauty and peace without having to choose a side or beat the drum.

In this moment, we need a retreat from the illusion of separation, from the black and white, the good and bad. We need to come back to the place where we are all one, where neutrality is the norm, and acceptance is the status quo.

This place exists, deep inside.

This place is there, always.

Standing for Something

The windows are rolled all the way down, creating a heavenly draft of fresh Florida air as I drive down State Road 207, where dilapidated barns and rows of junk cars slowly transition to brightly lit gas station signs and shiny shopping complexes.  An old country song plays on the radio, bringing up images of an army of stomping feet, fists rising high in unison, battle cries from the field—calling me to join in the war.

You've got to stand for something or you'll fall for anything
You've got to be your own man not a puppet on a string
Never compromise what's right and uphold your family name
You've got to stand for something or you'll fall for anything

I am suddenly an unlikely observer in the spectacle.  One of the many in the crowd of the Colosseum, crying out for blood.  You’ve got to stand for something, they say.  You’ve got to take a side. It’s us or them. We can’t let the bad guys win.

But then all goes quiet. I float above the ancient stadium and the raging crowd seems like a mountain of angry ants.  I am no longer forced to play the game, to choose a side, to be invested in the outcome.  I no longer need to represent the cause.  I see it all as it is: a holy perfect mess.

So much change has been going on around here.  In my world, my mind, my heart, deep down where I had ideas that were ruling me—ideas that this is good and that is bad.  This is what nice people do, that is what mean people do.  This is what I am like, that is what they are like.  This and that, separating myself from the rest of humanity. 

There is no such thing as separation, and this illusion just creates fear.  There is no us and them. There is only us.  There is no good and bad.  There just IS.

It’s a constant remembering and releasing, an ongoing reminder to let go of my constructs and keep my mind open—keep my heart ready for whatever comes, whether or not I have it on the schedule.  Sometimes the best options are the ones we block out.  The ones we judge—and then eventually we see that we are just judging ourselves, or that part of ourselves that is ashamed of being there. 

There is a monumental change upon us—a shift in perspective.  There is beauty growing in places where no light was able to shine for a long, long time.  Dark rooms are getting aired out, things are bubbling up, and there is movement. And it is happening fast.  We have no time to get attached to outcomes—we have to ride this wave and focus on keeping our balance.   As soon as we get in our own heads and start attaching to outcomes, bam—wipe out.

This has been my lesson.  As soon as I build up a house of cards to settle down in, the whole thing collapses and I sit there on the floor, legs crossed, in a puddle of playing cards, laughing at the thought that I actually believed all of it was permanent.

Everything is exactly where it is supposed to be. It might get worse before it gets better, or it might get worse before it gets worse. Trump or Hillary, black or white, right or wrong, heaven or hell, it’s just a game that we play to pretend that we are not all the same—that we don’t all have an aspect of each of these characters within us.  The bigot, the sexist, the racist, the cheater, the corrupt.  We have thought these thoughts—to say otherwise is denying our own shadow. 

The gamification and sensationalization of it all just reminds us that this really is just a game.  It doesn’t matter whose side you are on, and how serious you take it. Once the veil is lifted, it all becomes further away and less important, these details.  It’s the judging that creates the need to to fight—in order to protect from the fear.  I have come to realize that fighting is never the best way to achieve something—allowing is always smoother, easier, more productive and more enjoyable.

So yes, I stand for something—something greater than this fight. I stand in my knowing that mankind is more than these games we play.  I am not falling for the smoke and mirrors that tell me otherwise.  I stand up for love and recognition that we are all on the same side, and I will not fall for the lies that fear is trying to feed me.  It's the words to an old song singing anew: I’ve got to stand for something, or I’ll fall for anything.

A Season of Possibility

The shadow is slowly creeping over my feet as I stand to drag the green Adirondack chair a few yards out into the sunlight again.  The floor of grass and orange leaves shine as I find another spot to warm myself as I write, blending into the backdrop of autumn.

This week we decided to take a short trip north, up to the Appalachian Mountains to celebrate a change of season for my love.  He has now officially been on the planet for 40 years, and this little cabin on the side of the hill is a perfect space for us both to sit back and reflect on time gone by, and what we are calling to us next.

I visited this town when I was a little girl, with my parents and two brothers.  I saw snow for the first time here in these woods, and I slid down the face of these hills with great speed.  Now, the trees are covered in a bright bedspread of fall, and there is a crispness in the air that feeds into the idea that time is definitely passing, but it isn’t slipping away—that change is actually cyclical.  The leaves will break from the branches and winter will come, calling us all to go deeper inside of ourselves.  We will go quiet for a bit, but through it all we will remember to hold vigil for Spring.

I welcome the change with open arms.  I let go of the things that I have outgrown and allow the new to flow in, fresh, abundant, and overflowing with possibility.

A Summer Roadtrip

The soft light of dawn seeped in through the van’s back window.  I fluttered my eyes open and smiled a knowing smile as I stretched my arms and legs in opposing directions.  My husband was still asleep as our little dog poked her nose out of the white duvet.  I slowly opened the sliding door on the passenger side, taking the dewy air into my lungs.  My eyes settled on the Alps in the distance; it was the perfect backdrop for enjoying a coffee heated on our vintage Coleman camp stove.

It was a morning like many other mornings this summer.  Since we decided to sell our house in Florida and take off on the roadtrip to end all roadtrips, we have woken up with a different back yard every day.  Living in a tiny van with another human and a dog has been surreal, intense, and amazing. 

We started in Luxembourg in May, headed to the Netherlands, and then traveled through Germany and the Alps.  We spent quite a while in Italy before taking the a ferry to the islands of Croatia, up through Slovenia, Austria, Switzerland and on to the UK where traveled all around the Scottish Highlands.  Finally, we drove through Belgium and back to Luxembourg, where we dropped off our van and headed back to Florida, where we just picked up another van, a Mercedes Sprinter, and will continue to travel all across North America.

The 6 months we spent in Europe were nothing short of life-altering.  We have done a lot of traveling in our days, but never like this.  Living in a van is so freeing, easy, and inexpensive.  Our accommodation costs were next to nothing for the entire time we were on the road!  We did a lot of meandering and wandering, exploring and adventuring, and never had pressure to check-in or check-out, be someplace at a specific time, or do anything that didn’t excite us.  We built huge bonfires next to rivers in Scotland, went swimming on pristine private beaches on Elba Island in Italy, and kayaked through the crystal waters of Korcula, Croatia.  We hiked insanely beautiful mountains on the Aletsch Glacier in Switzerland, and we caught up with old friends and made new ones in Fuschl-am-See, Austria.  We never had to pack and unpack our suitcases, and we were always home, no matter where we parked it.

I look back on our incredible memories from this summer and am so grateful we made the choice to take the leap.  It is an unconventional way of living, yes, but who says conventional is better anyway?  Maybe true happiness is waiting for us, outside of our mortgages and fancy furniture, if we are just willing to let it all go and try something different.

The Serious Work of Following Dreams

The last hour of daylight is upon me as I sit on the porch swing, listening to the sound of bamboo wind chimes clinking in the breeze. Various birds call back and forth with chirps, squawks, and whistles. It’s a nice soundtrack for a lazy afternoon out in the country.

When I arrived in Florida 3 weeks ago, I was ready to get back to my roots—I needed to ground down into rich soil so I could let my branches spread wide. This time has been one of devastation and loss mixed with deep calm, surprises and movement, and rebirth. At least it feels that way right now—like the worst is over and I’m settling into a new kind of life. One of creative expression and constant reflection, all put into a frame, one of dedication and diligence.

First comes the letting go and releasing, then comes the heart work and the listening, and afterwards the plot seems to take a pivotal twist. Once the set-in-stone plans are broken and we let the Divine take control of the tiller, and once the new and improved dreams arrive in in the mailbox of the heart, then new actions are indicated. We actually have to do something.

So, that’s where I am right now. The ebb has receded for a while and the flow has set in, and it feels incredible. Yes, I am riding this wave, just moving along and enjoying the pull of the current, but something is different this time around. I’m not just floating, I’m paddling with all of my might, in the direction that my heart tells me I must go.  Everything is lining up, and now it’s time to use my creative powers to transmute those ashes into a beautiful phoenix.

This is where we must remain diligent. It is a serious task, following the heart, and for me it’s time to treat it with the respect it deserves. It’s a vocation. It isn’t for the weak or the wispy. It’s for the tough and the hardheaded. The ones that won’t give up on their heart’s calling no matter how much the world doesn’t believe in it. The ones who are willing to do anything in their power to make that dream come alive. The ones who get up early and show up at the desk, on the mat, in the garden, in the alchemy lab, and get to work.

Singing Harmony

It was still dark outside as we all piled into the back of the red Jeep Cherokee, early on a Saturday morning back in 1989.  My two brothers and I sat in the back seat, buckled in tight with our favorite stuffed animals in our laps (a purple haired hug-a-bunch doll, a stuffed clown, and blue bear).  We were going on road trip to the Smoky Mountains, far away from our North Florida home.  As the Jeep started the long expedition up I-95, I stared out the window to read the road signs and hone in on license plates I had never seen before.  Driving through the first state, Georgia, took an eternity in my 8 year old mind, and I wondered how in the world I would manage the rest of this long trip without going crazy.

Then, we heard them sing.  We all perked up to the sounds of the song that challenged us all to chime in. My parents practiced a voice exercise that they learned from their many years in the choir. “Doe-Doe-Doe-Doe, Doe-Doe-Doe-Doe, Doe-Doe-Doe-Doe, Doughnuts.”  Yep, a song about doughnuts—for an 8 year old kid stuck in the car, it couldn’t get much better.  We each chose our part, the 3rd, the 5th, and the octave, and as the notes came together to match as one strong voice, our hearts smiled wide.

My parents were good sports.  Just a few hours earlier, they were unloading music equipment from the bar where they played their latest gig, then they headed home to get a bit of sleep before the alarm sounded again.  Tired but ready, they sipped on coffee as daddy sat at the helm and mama held the atlas.  When they felt their children growing impatient with the never-ending expanse of highway, they mustered the strength to sing a round of harmony, even though voices were worn out and their nerves where wearing thin.  To my 8 year old self, that was what love looked like.

I am now visiting my parents here in Florida for a while before I take off on my next adventure. Twenty-seven years have passed since I took that long drive in the Jeep, up to see snow for the very first time.  The musical seed that was planted in my childhood, it is starting to come out of dormancy.  The bulb from seasons past is starting to grow shoots, and it’s pushing little buds out of rich composted soil.  What looked like barren dirt, has really been a patient garden.

Yesterday we sat in the living room with our instruments choice.  The TV hasn’t been working since the storm hit last week and our boredom forced us to resort to methods of entertainment that haven’t been used in a while.  My mama played bass guitar, my daddy played guitar, and I played ukulele.  We all sang together, in harmony, songs that I have heard hundreds of times, the melodies that have been the theme songs of my life.  We plucked our instruments as they created the backdrop for the voices that had missed each other for so long, those voices that even back then, always loved to come together as one.

When I was little girl, I knew music was one of the greatest joys of life.  I knew in my heart that it was a language that I had to speak.  I knew that I had to express myself through notes, in sound waves, and with rhythm.  Now it’s all coming full circle as every great journey does, and I am so grateful to be a humble bystander, constant observer, and a captivated member of the audience.

Gypsies don't own Clocks

I sat upright in the desk chair as I watched the little red hand click it’s way around the circle.  11:32.  Exactly 28 minutes until I could make my escape and leave the harshness of the fluorescent lights and the ever present eye of my boss, to spend a full one hours time outdoors, on the terrace of a local pub, enjoying a meal with my colleagues.  Those lunch breaks were my respite from a life of discontentment, working behind a desk, pushing paper, swallowing my heart’s calling to do something else, something greater, something more me.

Flash forward 8 years, and I live my life in free flow.  I wake up when I want, wear what I want, and do what I want.  Structure is something that I threw out the window with my suits and high heals, and since then has been something that my inner rebel hated.  Well, that is, until now.
The past few weeks have been so chaotic around here.  My granny died unexpectedly, and a massive hurricane hit and destroyed a lot of my hometown.  After spending the summer traveling, living full time in a campervan in Europe, I flew back to Florida to spend some time with my family, and have been sitting here in what feels like a constant limbo. 

Living a nomadic life means that am used to being on the move, and in a way, that prevents me from sitting still and dealing with the not-so-fun things in life.  I don’t have to worry about sorting through junk mail or cleaning toilets,  and I don’t have to cut grass or talk to home insurance companies on the phone.  But, since some serious acts of God have prevented me from taking off on my next adventure, here I am, sitting upright staring at the clock, wondering when I am going to get moving again. 

While I have been sitting, I have let some structure settle in to that open space.  No, I don’t like other people imposing their rules on me, but what if I make the rules? So, I have been playing around with some routines of sorts, setting an alarm, doing yoga before the sun comes up, spending some time alone in meditation, and writing.  The morning has become my time to work, not to increase the value of shareholder’s stock, but for my own dream.  My hopes need legs to be realized, and I can only give them movement through the process of sitting down and getting things done.

When I sit in the early morning darkness, facing the wild woods that surround my parent’s home, I don’t sit and watch the clock anymore.  It just seems to slide on by.  Soon the darkness is swallowed by the sunlight and I am busy typing away on my laptop, letting the words flow like they never did when I worked at that office.  And right around noon, I look up at the clock in surprise as I decide to just keep writing a little longer.  Lunch can wait, but my dream, it cannot.

Choosing an Unconventional Life

I dangled my legs off the edge of the bar stool, resting my elbows on the bar.  “Café?” the bartender asked.  “Café Viennois, s'il vous plaît,” I answered.  The espresso machine went to work to create my meal’s grand finale as I stared blankly at the row of liquor bottles reflecting light in golden colors.

I had been working in private banking in Luxembourg for nearly four years, first as a fund accountant and later negotiating contracts with investment managers.  I was a creative soul stuck in a gloomy world where there wasn’t enough light for me to flourish.  I felt constrained and stressed out, worn down and unhappy. 

As the tiny cup of coffee was delivered, topped with a tall peak of whipped cream, I let the coals inside me get hot enough to finally catch on fire.  I knew in my heart that this would be the last time I would go to the office and live the life that was expected of me, what I expected of me.  I sat there, stirring my decadent drink, and in my mind I knew it was time to say no to what I had worked so hard for, so I could say yes to what would come easy to me.

It was 2008 when I left my job in finance and decided to travel the world, selling my beautiful home, fancy cars, and designer furniture.  I got rid of the pant suits and the high heels and replaced them with cutoffs and flip flops.  I pared back everything that couldn’t fit in my suitcase, and I went on a crazy adventure with my husband.  On a cold night in December, we left conventional life behind—and we don't regret it.

We all long for freedom.  We crave air and space to let ourselves spread out.  We want time to expand and wander, without a plan, without a deadline.  There comes a time when structure, that was once meant to support us, ends up smothering us, keeping us from shining, from breathing, from being who we are.

In those moments where we get the glimpse of what we really need, we take a chance.  We take a risk.  We go against everything we have been working for our whole lives, we jump.  Then, the universe catches us and we go on a beautiful journey that lasts the rest of our lives.  
That’s what has happened to me at least.  In listening to that small but growing voice, I was able to discover a hidden world--what I once thought to be a dream world--and figure out how to stay there. In that moment where I was the most unhappy, I was forced to see the golden key that opened it all up wide—the key that I had in my hand all along.

The Aftermath

Today I woke up to the sound of the coffee grinder spinning in service to the sleepy minds in the house.  My body ached from working for many hours on end, emptying my brother’s home of all of it’s first floor contents, removing mud, salt water, and damaged belongings from the places where they drifted during the storm.  In the garage, paint cans were tipped over and wedged between soggy antique furniture, a washing machine was resting on it’s side, and the interior walls bore the marks of the muddy pool that formed between those four walls.  Seeing everything in disarray, nonsensically scattered every which way, made me wonder what the place looked like when the coolers were floating on by and the appliances were drifting away from counter tops and swimming about.  Once the water seeped back out onto the street to retreat back into the rivers and oceans again, then we were left with the work of putting it all back together. 

We all joined together to create a team of rebuilders, ripping out the walls and lifting out the salty wet jewels to rinse them off and let them dry on a tarp in the driveway.  The entire contents of the garage and foyer were laying out on display, for the yard sale where items weren’t actually for sale. There was something satisfying about cleaning up a mess like this one, where shoes get muddy and hands get dirty, wheelbarrows get filled and there is visible progress as the hours tick by.  Once the sun started to sink, the end was near and everything didn’t seem so bad.  The things that were lost were things that weren’t needed anyway, and those that were needed could easily be replaced.  It was a mandatory autumnal purge on city-wide scale.

Many people are still working hard to put their homes back together, and they are standing shoulder to shoulder to help to move things along.  Right now there is so much neighborly love being shared in this little town, as total strangers are offering to help those whom they have never met, spending all day doing backbreaking work to save their homes.

I now sit on the porch of my parent’s house, suspended in air, nestled in a swing shaped like a basket, feeling safe and comfortable as the loud sound of a generator runs in the distance, feeding power to the house next door. It has been a season of experiences on many levels, and at the heart of it all is the feeling of being supporting and being supported by the ones I love.  I haven’t been back here much since I left 12 years ago to lead a wandering life of adventure, but this week has made me realize that it feels good to be in one place for a while, grounding back into the soil where I was sewed.  Even though it’s been muddied, I have been uprooted, and I feel a tiredness deep down in my bones, I know where I am, what I am, and how intensely I am loved by the beautiful people in the place I call home.

Divine Time

I walked down the long winding drive that leads to my parents house. What was once a dirt road was covered in green leaves and grey branches, out of place on top of the sand.  The little leaves weren’t meant to make their big break from their limbs until spring, when the Florida oak trees create a confetti of brown that requires many hours of raking.  But, the leaves didn’t get a choice.  Sometimes we aren’t ready for the winds to come, but they come anyway.  It might not be the right season or the way things normally happen, but it happens anyway.  We picked up the fallen greenery and piled it all into the trailer that my mom towed around the yard with the tractor.  With a house full of capable hands, we made quick work of the task and the yard was back to normal in less than half an hour.  My parent’s place weathered the storm, and we all had a renewed sense of gratitude to be here with one another, spending time in what has felt like a vacation in the woods.

My brother drove up to his home this afternoon, after wondering for an eternity what the damage would be.  He saw a dirty line that was drawn all the way around his house, 4 feet from the ground.  The water had risen and risen, filling every little space between the river and his home, and then it swallowed the base of his house whole.  It lifted heavy things with ease, and then deposited them in the strangest of places.  In the short time it came to visit, it managed to break power tools, and climb stairs, ruin walls, furniture, and washing machines.  My brother walked into his home and was shocked by what a bit of water could do to the place that he worked so hard to make his own, the place where he and his wife will bring his daughter home after she is born and then leaves the hospital in a few months.

He is one of many who came home to wreckage, after the water rose over the town like a forgotten faucet left on overnight.  He wasn’t ready for it, and neither was the rest of our town, but sometimes things just happen anyway.  Now the rebuilding starts, and we are all here to support one another through the shock of the unexpected and the actions that come after it all sinks in.

We were supposed to stay in Florida for a week before we picked up our van and started our travels across the US.  We had it all mapped out, as we always do, in our online calendars, notebooks, and in our minds. We have been here for nearly 3 weeks now, and aren’t going anywhere for a while, it seems.  My granny died last week, unexpectedly.  A hurricane hit and destroyed things.  We have no electricity here in my parent’s home, as we all sleep on mattresses on the floor, camping out in a different way than what we are used to. I am taking my sweet time with my family, going on vacation from traveling for a while.  There has been so much movement in my life, but not the kind of movement I am used to.  My body is staying in the same place, but my spirit is changing.  My heart is growing.  I am grounding my body to let the other parts of me, important parts of me, catch up.

So, it isn’t like I thought it would be, but it is perfect.  I sit on the porch with my ukulele as my daddy teaches me bluegrass songs.  I cut up vegetables with my mama in the kitchen as we make gigantic salads to feed our hungry housemates.  I flash back to memories of times when my brother was a little boy with curly blonde hair and had less on his mind, and flash forward to images of him as a father, and I take some time to get to chat with my sister-in-law and remember how blessed I am that she is in our family.  I get to see my husband settle in to a world where he is accepted as he is, where he doesn’t have to perform and he can be himself without the least bit of judgement.  These are the gifts that I have received, the presents that the unexpected, the not being ready, the being forced to let go of the plans, has given me.  It’s not what I thought I would be doing on this page on my date book, but it is better than I could have penciled in.  Life is happening in it’s perfectly timed way, and I am the amused and grateful observer. 

A Change in the Wind

There is something magical happening around here, something otherworldly.  The air rushes through the branches with a howl, and the ghosts are still there but they aren’t as scary as we thought they would be.  We are enjoying the stillness that comes from waiting on something to pass and having no other choice but to hang out and have a drink, share a laugh and an unspoken thought that we are so glad that things are blowing over.

And in this waiting I feel a music in me, simmering there on the back burner of my heart’s stovetop.  I feel creative children who want to be born through me, and I have a knowing that they are coming soon.  They are different flavors and different colors and I can’t say which one will come first, but I know they are all being formed in my creative womb.  I am sitting here in stillness and allowing things to unfold in the only way they can, in perfect time.

To my right, balanced on the edge of the arm of the couch, is my latest muse: My Ukulele. It was a gift from my parents for my 35th birthday, and a couple of weeks ago when I arrived back at their house after my trip through Europe, it was waiting for me all wrapped up with a bow.  Something in me said I needed to play this instrument. Like a foreign language that I know I needed to learn to speak, my fingers knew they needed to learn the native tongue of this device.  I felt it calling me from all the way over the sea, as I traveled in my van through Scotland.  I knew that this visit with my parents would be about creating music.  And I felt the notes and chords flowing out, just waiting for a channel to be able to come alive, to be born into sound waves that could penetrate the ears of those who needed to hear it.  I knew that it was time for me to transmit my hearts message through music.  I walked into my parent’s guest bedroom, where I would settle in until our Mercedes Sprinter van is completely renovated and ready to drive on our next adventure, and I saw that little present on the bed waiting for me there, my voice in the ocean of silence.  I knew I needed to speak this instrument’s language, and now was the time for me to learn how.

It has all come like second nature to me somehow, as my hands slowly find the dexterity needed to twist themselves around the notes I need to transmit.  I feel this incredibly blissful sense of finally speaking after so many decades of being mute.  This instrument is just another channel for my heart’s message to flow, and it’s flowing so beautifully and perfectly for me right now.  Of course, I am not fluent yet.  Far from it.  I know I have a long way to go before others can understand my strong accent, the one that will slowly diminish with time.  It will take a while before my vocabulary is large enough for me to be able to say all the things I want to say, precisely the way I want to say them.  But, I know it’s coming, and this gives fills me up with a enough joy to keep my engines turning a little while longer.

What she Lost in the Fire

The sounds of voices, laughing, exclaiming, having a good old time, are seeping through the walls, muffled down to a hush.  The rain is here, and it is coming down in sheets.  My parents, husband, brother, and a few close friends are all gathered out on the porch for front row seats to the show, the one blinking in ticker tapes around the world, Hurricane Matthew. 

The spectacle seems so far away from where I sit, up in this quiet little loft, with a sleeping dog by my side, sipping on a mixture of almond milk, cinnamon, and maple syrup.  I am wrapped in a blanket of calm.  The grey clouds filter the sun’s strong rays and as they dwindle down to a muted shadow.  The whole world feels like an old black and white film with the sound on low, and it makes me pay attention to the subtleties, the minor movements that are taking place in my own mind.

Just a couple of days ago we gathered the remains of our belongings in one place, to transfer them to a hot and humid storage unit clad with dark brown tin.  Last spring we sold or gave away most of what we owned in preparation for our big adventure.  We were going on a pilgrimage, led by our hearts, following the compass that lies under layers of flesh and bone, the one that tells us where our true north lies.  And well, there wasn’t much use for loads of “stuff” where we were going.  It would just hold us back, and we had to let it go.  We still have some things left though, big boxes with blankets I ordered online, plastic bins with dishes I found at the flea market, and an old rocking chair that belonged to my great grandmother, my namesake, Alicia.  There were enough things to fill a 10x10ft storage unit, where it has all been laid to rest for a while until we decide that we need to rebuild a permanent home.  I don’t know how long it will wait for us there, or how many years or months will pass before we will need to peel back the packing tape to discover the treasures, but it doesn’t seem like these time capsules will be opened any time soon.

I think about everyone who has evacuated their homes over the past few days, headed west to avoid the blow of this insanely massive storm.  I see the images of the families packing the trunks of their cars full of all of the things.  I hold the picture in my mind of the children going through their toy boxes, choosing just one doll and one book, their favorite ones, the special ones, to bring along.  I see their dad’s turning the key and pulling it out of the knob, checking that it’s all locked up tight, and walking away from it all.  Not being sure if this will be the last time they ever pull their car out of their front drive.  Taking off in their family cars, in the direction of the unknown.  Hoping that it will all blow over, but being grateful for the important things, the things that aren’t things after all, but people. 

One day, when my mama was a little girl, she walked up to her childhood home, the one her daddy built with his own hands.  Like so many times before, she crossed over the grassy lawn and laid eyes on the place where she made so many memories in with her 7 brothers and sisters, the place where she took refuge from the world’s sharp edges.  On this day though, the harshness of the world didn’t stay outside her front door, it opened the door wide and made itself at home.  As she walked across the yard in slow motion, she saw tall flames reaching out of her bedroom ceiling, bright orange ghosts attempting to swallow everything that mattered to her.  She lost everything that she owned that day, every photograph, every trinket, every pretty hand-me-down dress.  She had no choice but to let it all go, up in a big cloud of dark black smoke.

This morning, as I helped my mama fortify her home, the one she built with my daddy with their own hands, she reminded me of that story.  As she swept the water off the back porch, she shook her head and shrugged her shoulders and told me that none of that stuff ever mattered.  And all of the things she lost the second time and the third time her house burned down, none of it mattered either.  Yes, this happened to my small but strong mama three times in her life. As soon as she got used to a new home and settled in, as soon as she felt safe, she was forced to let it all go as the bright orange ghosts came to take it all away again.

As my mama dried off the last corner of the back porch, where the lawn furniture was piled into a big stack, she reminded me that losing everything made her value the really important things in life.  And, as families all over Florida surrender the homes and the stuff to the great surge, the colossal winds, and the big monster of a storm, we take away what really matters.  Not only the people that are with us on the journey, but the lessons that we learn when we have no choice but to let it all go.

And if it is the case this time, that we are forced to sit in a sea of emptiness, in a pile of ashes where that facade once stood, then we will have no choice but to bow down to the power that created the things, the people, the wind and the water and the fire that takes it all away.  We will sit in that space where all of those important things once stood, and we will realize that it didn’t happen to us, but it happened for us.  It was all for our own unfoldment, for our own unraveling, for our own becoming.  And eventually we will step back and surrender to it with arms open wide, remembering that we never had a reason to doubt.  The wind was at our back the whole time.

And the Rain Came Down

A storm is brewing just southeast of us, out in the middle of the Atlantic.  A monster of a storm is circling round and round, gaining strength, ready to hit with tremendous force, whatever stands in it’s path.  I am sitting in my parent’s cabin in the woods, up in their loft, just far enough inland as not to need to be evacuated. I have spent most of the day up here in this dimly lit alcove, in front of my dimly lit computer screen, writing my granny’s obituary.  It’s a delicate task that requires a soft hand and an open ear, and a remembering that every voice needs to be heard.  Being part of a clan means that I must listen to the concerns of each member and integrate everyone’s opinion.  Being part of a family requires teamwork and compromise.  It requires love.

I woke up early this morning with a plan to get some things accomplished.  Today would be the day that I got these items scratched off my to-do-list.  Instead it feels like one of those days from my childhood where I stayed up all night and slept in all day.  My eyes haven’t fully adapted to daylight yet and it will soon be nighttime again. I have that sort of feeling where I don’t know up from down, day from night, as the wind whips the outside of the house like a child who hasn’t behaved.  It’s all rather dark.  One of those days, where things are percolating and getting sort of muddy.

Tomorrow my brother will arrive with his wife and dog, coming to the country to seek refuge from extreme weather.  We will huddle in darkness together, one big family, in the soft glow of candles, and we will remember what it was like to live under one roof, when we used to argue about who had control of the remote.  Our inner children will probably come out to play, the ones who seem to present themselves when we come together.  I might take on the role of big sister, even though my brother is far bigger than I am, and can more than take care of himself.  And, I might take on the title of young daughter, even though I am a grown woman who has traveled the world many times over and doesn’t need to be protected anymore.  When we get together, lines get blurry and routines get interrupted.  Old patterns come up, so they can be cleared.  It’s messy.

So, as I take a deep breath and let wind take down those dead limbs, I remember that the storms are made to upset us, to stir the pot, to move things around.  They are there to encourage us to fortify our spaces, inside and out, and come back to who we are.  Because there is no hurricane in the world big enough to break me; it will just unravel me, bit by bit, role by role, until all that’s left is the raw insides.  That’s what I came here for anyway, isn’t it?  To remember that I am so much more than all of the fears and all of the things I think I need to pretend I am.  Sometimes we just have to board up the windows and hunker down, spend time with the people who know us best, and just let the rain come down and wash it all away.

Music in my Blood

Last night I sat among an inebriated audience, next to my brother and his beautiful pregnant wife, as we listened to the sound of our parents playing music.  They were up on the stage, as they often are, entertaining the crowd with their down to earth stories and their God-given and self-cultivated talents.  My mama, standing at 5’3” gripped her electric bass and let her fingers slide up and down the frets, stomping her feet as she belted out ballads and fast paced anthems, her big voice traveling through the air, into the ears of those in the crowd, the music taking a direct turn straight to the heart.  My daddy matched her voice with raspy masculinity as he bellowed his words down the ancient streets.  He focused, in a trance of sorts, as he performed magic tricks with his assistant, the guitar.

I sat up straight on the bench, under the light of lanterns hung from a giant oak tree, and listened to the music that is running through my blood.  The music that I have known since before I was born, as my daddy sang to me as I developed into form.  The music that has defined so much of my journey and who I am.

Just an hour earlier we were all leaning over a dimly lit hospital bed, the bed that held the body of my granny.  Mother of 8 and grandmother of too many to count, she has taught us so much about life.  Outliving two husbands, surviving horrific tragedies, and eluding her doctors who never could understand how she managed to survive on a diet of RC cola, cigarettes, and Old Milwaukee; she had faith that moved mountains and made miracles.  My mama stood to her right, her hand on my Granny’s chest, feeling her heart finally take it’s long awaited break after 87 years of constant beating.  It was time for her to rest, and we all whispered our message of allowing, giving her permission to let go. We held vigil for her as she finally slipped into silence, enveloped in the sea of her creator, being reunited with all that is and ever will be.  She left the heaviness of this world, and we all felt her spirit float and widen to fill every last crevice of empty space that surrounded us, even the tiny spaces in our hearts that we didn’t know were there.  We took a piece of her spirit with us, and we came away from the experience in a state of gratefulness and respect for the woman that created from nothing, a tribe of warriors, a clan of survivors, and a family of lovers.

As I sat next to my blood brother, the love of his life, and my niece, who is being formed in her mother’s womb, I was covered in a blanket of gratitude.  For my family, the steady ground I have had to spring from. For the constant love I have had with me since before I had a name, and for the woman, my granny who made it all a reality.  And I sat back and felt the presence of my tiny niece as her life-force prepares for her debut outside of her mom’s belly, which is set to take place in a few short months.  I glanced on stage, as my parents let their gift pour out, thinking about how everything is moving, evolving, and changing form.  My parents will soon be grandparents, my last grandparent has become and angel, and I can’t help but feel something changing in me too.

So, we all raised our glasses and cheered to Nancy, the matriarch made spirit, the divine mother made flesh, and the deliverer of our DNA.  We are connected and always will be, by blood, by love, and by the music that will always play in our hearts for her.

I was Born to Ramble

It was a sweltering day as we packed my parents truck full of my most prized belongings.  We buckled our seatbelts and took off on the three hour drive south.  An eternity passed before we pulled into the full parking lot and unloaded the suitcase and the cardboard boxes and carried them up the three flights of stairs to my first home-away-from-home, my college dorm room.  They helped me unpack the blankets and pillows and get all of my notebooks and pencils in order, and then I walked them back down the stairs to the parking lot and back to their truck.  It was time to say goodbye.  My mama’s eyes welled up with tears as she held me tightly, not wanting let me go onto this next step alone, but knowing she had to.  Her work was done and now it was time to see what I could do.  They waved as they pulled out of the drive, and I was all alone.

This was the first time anyone in my family had moved away.  Our clan is numerous and all of them live in our small but growing town.  My family was always close by to lend a hand or cheer me up if I needed it.  On that late summer day, underneath steaming heat of the Florida sun, my 18 year old self took off my cloak of conformity and decided that I was going to do things differently.  I was going to see the world.

Since that day back when a three hour drive seemed like forever, I have indeed seen the world.  I moved to London two years after I started college, interning at a medical school hospital and working part-time as a teacher for Autistic children.  Then, another year passed until I met my now husband, and moved to Luxembourg with him.  We built a house and a life there together on the banks of the Mosel river among the grapevines.  Then a few more years passed by and that rambling woman started feeling it again—the need to roam.  It was all a beautiful novelty until it wasn’t anymore, and then those roots felt the call to retreat and pull up, to find different soil, to spread themselves out and grow.

It was Christmas of 2008 and we were sitting on a pile of packed suitcases in an empty house getting ready to leave for a flight to New Zealand via Bangkok.  We decided that roots weren’t really our thing anyway, and well, it’s 8 years later and we haven’t exactly changed our minds about that.  We have made long-term travel our life, and about 6 months ago we decided to sell another home and move into a van to take the mobility of home to another level.
It seems I have a wandering soul, and I am not sure if that will ever change.  I deeply treasure being back home with my family (where I am right now, as I type, perched up high in the loft of my parent’s beautiful cabin in the woods), but after a while it seems like my traveling shoes start kicking for something new. Is it the contrast I crave, that change in the rhythm that makes me start to pay attention?  I’m not quite sure.

It’s been over 15 years since I stood alone in the parking lot as my parents pulled away in their pickup truck, and I haven’t slowed down yet.  Through those tears in my mother’s eyes, we both knew that this was the moment that it would all begin.  We both knew that I was born to ramble.

A Bohemian Life

“There are no roads in all Bohemia! One must choose and find one’s own path, be one’s own self, live one’s own life.”

— Gelett Burgess (1916)

I am slipping into a place where rules don’t apply like they used to.  I didn’t realize it at first, but I have been slowly and steadily shedding my layers of expectation, dipping my toe in at first, and then all the sudden deciding to dive straight into this new world where there is no rational sense to it all and creativity runs rampant, tugging me every which way.  There are indeed no roads here, just signs posted up in the wilderness, indicating that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

During the month of October, I have decided to write about my life as a modern bohemian.  Nomadic, living in a van, playing instruments, writing music, books, essays, and sharing my love for freedom of thought and expanding the idea of time as I sit in the wild wide world, leaning into a roaring fire under the moon.  My life is a synthesis of so many themes, but at the core of it all is the idea that there are no roads that lead to where I am going.  I am making my own path with the stomping of my boots to the sound of the music that I carry in my heart.

In these next weeks, I am going on a journey through my not so ordinary everyday moments, my reasons and my convictions, and the power I have harnessed to push my sails.  I will tell the stories about how the faucet of my creativity started to flow one day and how, if I can help it, I will never let it turn tightly shut again.  I will explore the landscape of simplicity, letting go and allowing beautiful things to show up, and creating something out of the space that is left when you take away what’s not part of you.  I will let you into the physical space that I call home, my cabin of tranquility on four wheels.  I will take you into my world, the one that I created from scratch—the world that fits me like no other.  In the telling of my stories, I will hold space for you to explore your own free spirit that is waiting for you to cut her loose and let her roam, and tempt you to listen really hard to the mores-code of wonder that is being tapped on your window, calling you out into the wilderness to run among the wildflowers and spread out wide on the green.

Please join me here and let’s go on this beautiful adventure together, hand in hand, tethered only by our connection to one another, with absolutely nothing to hold us back.

Between two worlds

The constant humming of the airplane cabin lulls me to rest as I let out a deep exhale, above the expanse of white that gradually becomes pale blue and deep cobalt.  I am in the in-between, suspended over the Atlantic.  Neither here nor there.  The freshness of the next step tempts me, but I am not there yet.  I am in the limbo of space and it feels good to just settle here for bit, nestled between these two empty seats, dog settled near my feet in her travel bag, and laptop open on my tray table.

The past week has been an intense one for me.  I went from the slow life in the countryside of the Scottish Highlands straight into the quick of London, and it jolted my bones.  I had gotten used to the soft embrace of nature’s arms and the city seemed jagged in contrast.  I have become more sensitive to things, it seems, the more I have worked to clear my world of the noise.  Despite my urge to shelter my vulnerability, the city buzzed and called me outside, to melt into the body of souls who filled the spaces between the tall buildings and in the underground trains that spread through the earth like veins down an arm.

We woke to the sound of the neighbors steps, full of assertiveness, checking wristwatches and striding with briefcase in hand.  Then, we floated through the flat and sipped on warm drinks as we chatted about how our life and how it would be if we lived in the city year round, with the whole world of possibilities just out the door.  After the morning turned to midday, we finally ventured out of the safety of the front gate, and into the chaos, swallowed into the masses, becoming one of them, even if it was temporarily.  All going in different directions but all united in our proximity, hearts beating in time, hinting towards the memory that we are one.  Standing in the forest of strangers, I felt my heart exploding with gratitude as I praised the beauty of this species.  The sheer wonder that we all are—the microcosm of perfection that exists within us and amplifies when we all come together—whether we are conscious of it or not.  We are all miracles, just walking around, full of life, hearts pumping, lungs breathing, living out our own stories that overlap with one another’s, impacting this world in our own way.

There is so much beauty in the density of the city, just as much as exists in sparsity of the countryside.  This contrast keeps me alive, awake, forcing me to remember that there is no clean line, and that this whole thing is a force of an experience, multifaceted and ever changing.  The ebb is as important as the flow, there is no light without dark, and it is only on the white page that the black ink is visible.

I lengthen to fill the legroom in my space in the sky, held up by the nothingness, just another passenger aboard Flight 464 towards Orlando.  In a few hours I will touch down and take the short drive to my hometown, where I will be spending some time with my parents in the safe world where they live, out in the country.  Bonfires will be built, guitars will be played, and creations will be birthed.  Many homegrown words will be exchanged, but there will be space for silence too.  The space I need right now to integrate all of the changes I have been going through, to assess the situation and let it all sink in, to get back to where I came from and see where I am going. And, I will land on my feet, standing strong in my knowing that I am on course, exactly where I am supposed to be, expanding and unfolding , and ultimately just remembering that I am and always have been, home.