Bre A. Domescik
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This creative and conversational memoir style of blogging is embellished with photographs, sprightly texts, and gentle listening features.​ May these entries be as cathartic to read & to hear as they have been to conceive & to share. xo​

10/28/2020

Reading Leaves & Getting to the Next Moment: Appreciation and Preservation in 2020

If you would like to listen along:


My tea leaves are telling me:
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"Being present with what I have
may conjure
 just enough gratitude
to get me to the next moment". 
No, regrettably,
I have not mastered the art of reading tea leaves,
but I have lived through this lesson with them,
in particular.


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For longer than I would actually like to say, I’ve had my loose leaf teas
wrapped up, tucked away, and remorsefully, out of reach. 

I would bring them out for the occasional steep--usually on one of my drink-more-tea-kicks--
​or to have a teapot ​or two with company.

​
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Part of me had a sense of obligation
​not to “waste” my tea for the
​“ordinary-everyday-use” but to save
​these "precious" leaves to consume on those
​“special occasions”. 



​I find it perplexing how “significance” and “insignificance” have strong proclivities
​to precipitate similar behaviors in us humans.

Reverence, quite like irreverence, can to create    

​
d  i  s  t  a  n  c  e  ,

and  
  d  i  s  t  a  n  c  e    can sometimes lead to   

neglect   


;forgetting   .

My attempts to be reverential and prudent with the nouns of my life--beyond just my tea--has actually lead to dismission,
and lack of appreciation,

for not only these,
but also parts of myself. 



​And yet, 2020 has shed a new spectrum of light on these very internal & external dynamics of
​appreciation and importance.
 
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During this formidable year,

where most of us are just doing our best to survive
and to cope in whatever procurable way possible,


where being appreciative and present
​can feel ambitious; 

where we are more 
aware of 
 d  i  s  t  a  n  c  e 
than any one of us could have
ever forseen.


where prudence seems more like a requirement 
and reverence, more than not, mirrors neglect;


where the lines between significance & insignificance
are both blurred and distinct;


where one's sense of self is at risk of
being crushed under the weight of
​honest existential dread;

and "special occasions" hard to find;


getting close to what is close
​& taking life one moment at a time
has been imperative for the majority of us.

​As I unwrapped my tucked-away teas,
placed them into their own jars
carefully labeled,
organized,
and steeped a cup or two;

being present with one of those
​​precious-and yet-forgotten items of my life

reiterated how this year has--quite understandably--
made it far to easy for many of us
​
 to wrap ourselves up,
tuck ourselves away,
and put ourselves out of reach
in the name of reverence
--and  neglect

--in this seemingly unraveling world.
Picture

​This practice of reacquainting myself with the once revered and  neglected  leaves carves out a moment in my day where I'm reminded to get back 
​in arms-length of who I am;
intentionally unwrap myself and reflect on the precious-forgotten aspects of my life.
It is a time where I can practice re-incorporating that tucked-away appreciation, even on the days when it feels hard;

an opportunity to ponder how my behaviors reflect the reverence I have for the close & distant nouns of my life
​--beyond just my tea--

and make a micro-"special occasion" within the not-so-ordinary-everydays 
we've all been experiencing. 
​​

These mindful attempts have helped me to get to the next moment with gratitude
​--as uncertain as that next moment may be.
​
I truly hope you are thriving, friends.
But if you are one of the many to just be surviving this year,
I hope you have found, or will find, whatever it is that helps to get to the next moment, 
with whatever amount of gratitude that can be mustered; whatever it is that might assist you in getting closer to the precious-and-yet-circumstantially-distant parts of yourself​ and your life
​that this year may have created.
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​May your literal or figurative tea leaves voice  
"Peace and Presence"
​to you & yours

in this moment & the uncertain moments to come.

​

5/31/2020

Words for the Speechless: Grieving the Cultural Abuse of Black Lives


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​These words from a community crushed,
about a community perpetually devastated,
were words then held by others sharing in the grief.
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I was commissioned to do
​a sobering piece for my alma mater
during their response to the
killing of Micheal Brown
and in the mourning of the countless Black Lives that have been taken
because of the sin and injustices of our national, social, and cultural systems.
​
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​Part of my work in (re)purposing is the documentation of the materials I repurpose. 
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​These are just some of the many written 
aches, 
soul-wrenching moans,
and 
belly-cries for justice
the CTS community offered Black Brother and Sisters,
and the people of Indianapolis stood with.
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​
​
​I hear and read these same sentiments echoed for George Floyd
and all the Sacred Black Bodies who have been senselessly murdered
by our cruelty, brutality, and inaction.


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​If reading through grievances might help you to cope,
on some level,

these and other laments can be found on my project page​.
​
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To the Global Black Family:
 no spoken or written words, nor sharing in the grief 
--that 
us white people will never comprehend--
can ever be adequate penitence to You.

May we listen to You,
witness Your grief, 
fight for Your lives,
& do what is right by You,
personally and systemically.


#
BlackLivesMatter     #JusticeForGeorgeFloyd     #BLM     #RacialJustice     #RacialEquality
​

4/27/2019

Not Where We Thought: The Pain in Growth


​If you would like to listen along



Spring 
greets us, my dears!
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And I shake her hand with ambivalence.

​
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Despite all the vivacity she conjures--
new life,
new hope, 
​new growth
Picture
Picture
-- I feel 
​​
hollow.​

​
Picture

​​

​
​I am troubled by how unaffected I am
by Mother Gaia's progress
​surrounding me.

;progress I typically long to see
​--protruding with symbols of 
my own existence. 
​

​Crawling into the barrenness for more understanding
unveils unexpected metaphors 
​that feel more honest to this season in life:
​
 pain companions growth
& growth can look much different than anticipated.
​
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​​The beauty of this time of year tends to overshadow
the efforts and anguish that make the beauty possible.​​ 
Lifeforce takes tremendous exertion
​and is habitually laced with a
ches, failures & disappointments.
​

Picture
​How taxing can it be for the grasses
​to   s t r e t c h   from their rest?
​

​What fighting did it take for the sprout to breakthrough its branch?
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​​  What of the seeds and blossoms 
​  that had to die for others to survive?
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​Or the universes of growth that will
​​never come to 
be.
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The rains that might leave more bruises ​than nourishment. 
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​​My personal growth journey has its own equinox beauty not without
the accompaniment of 
inner fighting, visible bruises, and heart level pains.
​
​Pain lurks, too, within
​grieving my failures as fallen blossoms, and mourning the unrealized seeds of my latent dreams. Knowing there are the universes of myself that have not come to be, and might never come to be; disenchanted with the some of the universes that are. 

​

​So, as Spring flagrantly outstretches her branches and unclentches her flora to greet me,
she brushes against my own perceived lack of progress.
​

Where Spring has naturally been a time to internalize the beauty of growth around me:
doting the possibilities
for the person I am growing to be,
the person I want to become;

​this Spring
I sit solemnly with
​the person I no longer am,
the person I thought I would be,
  the person I hoped I would be,
the person I might never be, 
the person I will never be,
​the person my intuition calls me to be, and I am not
--at least not yet. ​

​This is not a pessimistic paradigm, nor an abandonment of aspirations,
​but rather a grieving, and loving, acceptance of how growth deviates
​--and the beautiful calamity of that deviation. 
​
Picture
My molted blossoms and seeds take on the flesh of my younger selves. Poking, pinching, and cupping my face they frisk to find the self they had so dreamed of.

We chatter over the lavished fantasies we had for our life: who we would be by now, what adventures we would have in our pockets, what impacts we would have made upon the world,
and ​it simply is not so. 

​​Aches, disappointment, and humility color that resignation. I may not be the woman we had always hoped for, and I am blossoming into a person we did not know I could become.

​ 
As we wipe the tears from each others' eyes,
I gather the inner children to speak of what adventures we have known, what lives-not worlds-we have impacted (as well as the lives that have impacted ours), and who we have become because of the alteration of our fantasies;
​the pains that blossom to a different kind of beauty. 

​​​
​​​Again, I greet Spring,
my younger selves and us all 
who feel the pain of our dying blossoms, who shed tears over our unrealized seeds, who fight to sprout, or who have been become bruised by the rains. I greet
​us
 with a warm encouragement to grieve, love, and accept 
the universes within ourselves that have not come to be, might never come to be, and those that have become. And when we brush by the reminders of not arriving to our fantasies, may we remind one another that we have, and are, progressing towards other universes of growth we never dreamt were possible.

​

If you would like to listen to a recording of this post at a later time,
​
please download the following file.



not_where_we_thought.mp3
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2/25/2019

All is Melting: A Reflection on Wintry Paradoxical States

​If you would like to listen along


All is Melting.
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My heart. 
My mind. 
The world around me.
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​Winter lives up to her barren and somber reputation,
but Oh,
how I welcome the melancholic mirror.


In a previous post,  I told of my spirit sprouting from the years within its brumal cocoon. As I emerge, the season is winter, but the season has not adsorbed me. I can serenely take in my hiemal surroundings without becoming them. 
Winter is a sister ​​to commune with,
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in contemplation, solitude, and dolefulness
--  of the nourishing kind.
She does not have to equate to a barren condition of the heart,
but is a reflection, a time of reflection, a time of evolution.


And what a time of evolution it has been.

Paradox
describes my previous wintry half decade. 
Simultaneously 
stripped&
filled;
contorted
&disentangled;
looted of identity&
​integrated into a truer sense of self;
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enveloped by unconditional love,
&at times,
​reminiscent over the conditional genre.
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There is healing in this paradox. 

​ The Tao Te Ching reminds me of this​, coincidentally, through the symbol of water: 
"Nothing in the world
is as soft and yielding as water.
Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible,
nothing can surpass it.
The soft overcomes the hard;
the gentle overcomes the rigid..."
​(chapter 78)
And yet, in the right conditions, even the gentlest of waters
become hard, inflexible, and ridged.
That hardened state serves her higher purpose:
to preserve,
to still,
to solidify.
Her obstinance makes way for contemplation, solitude, and dolefulness
-- of the nourishing kind.
And when she returns to the gentle coursing,
she "nourishes all things without trying".
                                                       (Tao Te Ching, chapter 8)
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​In my frozen state,
I am able to nourish myself.
In my fluid state,
I am able to nourish others.
Both states are needed
for the other state to be possible.
Both states are needed
to evolve and to heal.

​&for now,

All is melting.
Not fully frozen, nor fully fluid: something in-between.
As my winter sister breaks down her iciness, I commune with her in the act.
​She is a reflection of my own process of thawing.

​
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My eyes begin
to crack.
My spirit bubbles
with motion,
as the dissolving parts become
a current, flowing
towards the ignored and
desolate; soaking
in, to quench thirsts,
​and to satiate my need to
quench.
My mind dripping
with possibilities once
forgotten.
My heart splashing
about in the puddles
of liberation from the long-term
hardened state.
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​And those persistent
​hardened shards 

cradle those fragments 
that are rightfully not ready to flow. 
​​
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​
​Whichever hardened, fluid, or paradoxical state
you find yourself in this season, my dears,
may this time be your companion, and your mirror,
to your own evolution and healing. 
​

all_is_melting_fin.mp3
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To listen to my reading of this post at a later time, 
download the containing file.

​

2/23/2019

Seeds, Plant Death, and Journeying

​If you would like to listen along


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​

​There are seeds
in my juice. 





​
And
my house plants are

dying. 


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(I promise, this will all make sense soon.)
​

 It has been the kind of months 
 
where no matter what fresh and unsullied paths I've forged,

​   again and again,
​
​I inevitably find myself at rocky bends
​tripping,
scuffing knees, 
and breathing in a schnoz
full of mud
. 
All figuratively speaking, of course 
(although, with the 2019 mole hills of misfortune,
​my cynicism anticipates some actual spills
may be forthcoming).
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I am amazed--and mildly disappointed with myself--
in how the slightest twists of my own plans can feel wholly defeating some days;
and how the seeds in my juice and the withering plants in my house
​can feel like the offensive sprinkles and sour cherry 
on top.
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These obnoxious and clunky moments on the paths I forge,
do not make my paths sullied themselves. 
These moments are integral to the path.
They are my spirited guides
who greet me along the way 
​with a sweet abrasive divulgence:
that it is better to risk founding my course,
and to acquiesce its inescapable offenses,
than to never venture.  
​They are my junctures 
to greater knowledge of self soothing, 
so that the equally inevitable mountains of troubles 
can be scaled more swiftly
with the help of the formative self-care practices
used through the mole hill stumbling blocks.
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In cliche summation: The journey is worthy of creating and traversing, not in spite of, but because of its falls, scuffles, and faces full of mud;and how I care for myself and others through them. Because isn't self-care an extension of self-love? 
And isn't a part of this human journey to exercise love in all forms?
For my human journey, my answer is, yes.

​So, in the name of Self-love,
I practice.
I pick myself up, 
balm my wounds, 
take some breaths,
water my plants,
remove the seeds from my orange juice
--without eradicating all of the winsome pulp,
no doubt--

and swallow with gratitude:
​for that salutary honeyed cup,
the journey it took to find me on my paths,
​and the small role I played to make the cup
taste that much sweeter.
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May your juice be seedless, and your house plants thrive, my friends!

When those mole hills feel like mountains,or the mountains present themselves, 
may you continue to forge your paths and practice your acts of self-care--no matter how small the acts--as the tiniest portrayals of self-love are often the 
inoffensive sprinkles and cherries (with just the right amount of tartness)
on top.



To hear me read my blog post at a later time,
download the containing file.
seeds_plant_death_and_journeying.mp3
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2/15/2019

Practice Magic

If my soul should ever take the form of a song,

I believe this may be the one.

2/9/2019

Here's to the Nudges!



Anyone experienced in voice over work?

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I am aspiring to become familiarized
with this type of creative venture, myself.

Over the previous decade
I have been told by a medley of persons

that they find my voice to be:

"pleasant",
"soothing",
"sultry",
and other similar assortments of adjectives.

And it has taken me over that decade,
of heeding these passive compliments,
to make me wonder if I am being
divinely nudged.
   
  A
nudge
       to forge some kind of artistic pathway
                             with this unintended proclivity.



So, here I am
with a microphone, some sound accessories, and
a great deal of uncertainty.
Uncertainty of methodology,
uncertainty of direction,
uncertainty of outcomes,
but a great deal of assurance in my willingness to endeavor. 
 A great deal of assurance is also found in the rich symbolism of vocal practice
--but let's save that write up for a different day.



Here's
to the nudges & the willingness to be nudged.
Here's to participating in another prized form of creation & expression.
May you follow your nudges & proclivities,
my friends. 


 To hear my first sample, download the file below
sample_1.mp3
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 Apologies for the need to download.
The website builder is unable to support an audio player at this time.

The track has a few kinks as I continue to discover my pacing, style, and to refine these novice editing skills.
The script used was a write-up composed for marketing my therapeutic work.
Enjoy, my dears!

1/17/2019

To Remembering

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 I feel you,
you deflated swathe of snow.

That sunken,   d  r  a  w  n   ,wrinkled bundle of flakes
depicts the state of my heart over the previous week.

sick,
sagging;
a    c r a w l i n g    lurch.


I have been violated.

I will not speak to what exactly,
or how.
I am still too embarrassed;
too nauseated.
Still completely enraged and in utter disbelief that conscious baring individuals may not own a conscious at all.   
Still devastated to have fallen victim to humans' capacity to reave absolute strangers of their processions,
their dignity--and so, so much more.


I am safe.
I am healthy.
And although the trauma is mild,
the trauma now occupies the crevasses of where my confidence and self-trust once resided.


                 My wounded pride will heal                 

with time,

but the initial devastation of this event, I anticipate, may be somewhat kindred to my soul being forcibly scraped from the walls of my body.

Question marks have become further artillery to bruise my ego.
How could I have allowed this to happen?
Why did I not stop this at every chance I had?
How did I become so detached from reality?
. . .
Such questions are futile and undue, and yet answers find a way.

Fear is vexing.

And to be honest,
my spirit has felt listless for sometime.

Recent years of academic conditioning in symphony with practicing the daily grind of adulthood held me hostage from my own intuition.
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As I take in the cool,
flat,
wintry haze,
I witness the closest depiction of what my outlook on life has grown to be.
Through this fog,
the treasure to be found within this injustice emerges:
By part of my humanity being robbed from me by another, I can now know the magnitude of my own humanity that I have been robbing from myself.
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Awakened by Patty Bryant
My good friend--and partner's mother--has created for me a beautiful and indispensable gift. 
This painting is a representation of what she sees in me,
& who she believes I am.

She has entitled it,
Awakened
.
 For that I felt both undeserving,
and challenged to embody the wakeful strength that Patty experiences of me--
that I believe has been burrowed in me

somewhere.

Beware of what you ask for from Life, my friends.
Approaching 2019, I've meditated on embracing my personal power
--my Awakened being--
and to that, Life retorted:

"To grasp how powerful you are, you must acknowledge how impermissible you have allowed your power to become."


This personal travesty has been a process of remembering
my Self,
my power,
and to recognize to what degree I have forgotten them both.

This is an opportunity to Awaken the sleeping spirit of mine.
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​Tears of gratitude have far outweighed tears of grief,
thankfully so!
I feel the tingles of my sentience again.
The shame,
pain,
outrage,
& sorrow are ruthless animals that could only be contained
by many a loved ones who have been present to
hold me,
uplift me,
share with me,
and fight for me in the fiery throws.
Authentic acts of kindness and full-bodied conversations--
brimming with encouragement,
grace,
and generosity
--
have filled my lungs with even richer breath
than that which had been taken from me.

And with reclaimed breath,
I can again speak.


It has been nearly four years since my last post--reluctantly, yet purposely so.
With the nature of my work, I chose to refrain from airing my vulnerabilities on public platforms.

This week (and this incident) has heralded to me that personal expression--with dear friends, new friends, and within my writing--was, and continues to be,
a ritual that helps my world to seem less cool,
less flat,
less a haze.
Expression as a ritual of remembering what I have left dormant within;
a ritual of preventing the continuation of living with a
hibernating soul
& disheveled heart;
a ritual of washing my worldview with more enthusiasm,
more expansiveness,
more clarity,

so that the emotional gravity of tragic incidents might serve other purposes than these.


May you live out the rituals that orient you back to yourselves.
Be watchful, wakeful, & expressive, my darlings.
Missed you all.

3/1/2015

Piles of Cold: Braving the Winter Feels Inside and Out

Hi, Dears.
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As much as I can have feelings of real hate for this
viciously  cold ,
viciously  snowy ,
viciously  freezing ,
winter season,
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I really am grateful for it.
Yeah, there is bitterness,
and slush,
and subzero temperatures,
and piles of coldness sitting like a thud mountains,
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Picture


and
sheets of things
solidified

which used to be fluid
...

But seeing those qualities of nature gives me an excuse to be more empathic
with those icy feelings  within myself. 
Reminds me I do not have to have an excuse for these natural cycles of chillier, more dead qualities of my affect.

Its been an interesting couple of months on the emotional spectrum:
Getting back to school,
and surprisingly liking what I'm getting back into,

yet still questioning where this route is taking me.
And then doing that romantic thing of I often do--
feeling in love,
then not feeling in love...
The tossing and turning emotionally and vocationally brought up old
pains,
insecurities,
confusion,
apathy.
 Fortunately, I feel like celebrating myself as I've attempted to utilize the time as a means to practice a different approach towards healing
-- actual healing, not just coping.

Buddhist Philosophy is often good at reminding us that we are not our feelings. 
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Emotions move through us, like waves.
As strong as they come in, they say, they will also move away
-- though it doesn't often feel like such the moments they come crashing down.
The reasons I think we so often push against sitting
with the tide of troubled feelings in the first place:
we fear if we let them wash over us, we'll drown,
or in this case, freeze. 
At least that is what I've subconsciously held onto for too long
.

"Let go or be dragged",
some Buddhist would say, too.
If we run from the flood this time, it will only come to find us again
--and stronger.

I've come to the point where I'm tired of the running.
Picture
So,
I practiced the dreadful human chore
of letting the waves hit me.
Allowing myself to live in the sadness,
instead finding ways to escape;
allowing myself to be
cold
,
bitter,
slushy,
solidified where I once was fluid,
until it moved through me.
Picture
And it did
--the easier part to celebrate.
Picture
The ice cracking,
with its water seeping reflectively through in its liquid state again,
bears hope for the emotional softening process. 
But, no good does it do to will oneself to be water,
when one is already ice.


The metaphor reminds me that the same emotions that were hardened,
derive from the same emotions softened,
 simply a matter of degree.

So, may we celebrate the frozen in us all, dear ones.
All those thuds of cold mountains of snow inside of us,
and in our loved ones. 

For living in the full spectrum of our human emotions
is more enlivening than to not allow ourselves to be the icy  which we, 
at times,
feel.

And it is only for a time...

xo.

1/10/2015

Toiling, Encouragements, and Thank Yous: On Seasons Missing Rose-Colored Lenses

"Underneath all we are taught, there is a voice that calls to us beyond what is reasonable, and in listening to that flicker of spirit, we often find deep healing."
- Mark Nepo
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Ever feel like the color gets flushed out of your life?
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Mine has been feeling
that way for about
the last semester.

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The deathly feelings
of my fall
and winter have
hit me pretty hard
these seasons, lovies.

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Even my attempts to go down to southern Indiana for my birthday in November,  was stark of the seasonal vibrancy I was hoping to encounter.

So has been my life for the passing few months:
to seek the vibrancy while colorblind.
Its so unlike me to feel so pessimistic.
It had been a tough semester, friends.
As you can see, I haven't even gotten much the chance to write to you, in sometime. Academically speaking, I felt proud I was fairly on-top of my pursuits (the first half of the semester), but right-brained-typical-self living in the uncharted analytically-oriented side of my mind for a change, began to feel foreign, bland, and rote  real quick.
Papers!
Papers!
Reading!
Reading!
Presentation!
Presentation!
Read!
Read More!
Exam!
Exam!
Deadline!
Deadline!
Hurry!
Hurry!

I'm taking in information, spitting it back out, and constantly whirling in the self-induced-chaos that this was not the slow-paced intentional lifestyle I've signed up for -- and how ironic it is that to be pursuing a counseling profession can be so crazy-making!? My body, heart, and mind ache in not wanting to experience the world through the calculated part of my brain, and to not live this mechanized way of production. I even feel even more insane that the last handful of times I've written have primarily been about this graduate school madness... oh, to find myself in such cycles again...
I feel many of us in my generation finds ourselves in such a vocational dizzying-spell.  We have such big hearts to bring so much value into this world: to take care of her, and each other --in such creative ways!-- and we are the trailblazers for re-engineering the new blueprint for authentic living: building bridges to self and our life's work. Yet some, like myself, still feel like a herd of occupational cattle, too nervous to step out of the more socially acceptable throng of livelihood pursuits.

I want to love and listen to people through their
mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical toiling.
This could manifest in a million different forms,
but going to graduate school to be a counselor seems
the standard option,
so I took my yellow tag number. 
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This manner of viewing the educational system is not a generalized paradigm I believe everyone ought to share. I apologize for any offense taken by those who hold the way of life and learning in such regard. Knowledge is the life-blood for great personal and social change, in most circumstances. Accountability, which the educational system does well to uphold within one's life work, is key  to added stability of persons and professions, in most circumstances.
I am simply curious if the knowledge and accountability through my
masters program is my  path to gain the knowledge and accountability
best suited for me
.

From the same passage taken from my Mark Nepo quote above, he continues to speak of an ill man who dropped out of seminary to become a dancer.
"It is compelling for us to realize that studying God did not heal him.
Embodying God did."


I am the only one that can decide,
and act on,
what embodying God is for me.
Ironically (due to my situation at hand, and coincidentally with all this inner-voice talk) a large part of my "Read! Reading!" this semester spoke considerably upon trusting oneself.  Theologian and psychologist, Eugene Drewermann, believes that foundations of healing violence and mental illness within our world stem from honoring our unique inner voice;
trusting the God expression of our own
person-hood and to live this out.

Am I creating violence in my portion of the world, 
within myself,
to others,
by not trusting the person I feel I am?
Or are these the typical growing pains of the growing process?
Picture
A friend of mine and I were talking briefly the other day, about the necessity of the emotional seasons for a healthy soul. Our being needs to have it's own form of winters as much as its
autumns,
summers,
and springs.
Each time span with its characteristics of death,
fertility,
growth,
and back again.
This one goes out to all of us who are in our colder seasons emotionally,
with our gray-scale lenses
who aren't giving up trying it all,
until we find what brings back our vibrancy
(even when we feel like not trying it all sometimes).

And to the ones in their attitudes and livelihoods of warmth:
the Trailblazers
who have figured out how to work inside
and/or outside of the system,
to follow their hearts and
their callings in their own authentic ways.


Those who continue to remind
us all,
that the hues will eventually glow
again.
Picture
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Those who show us the days of longer light are coming.
        Those who have gone-- and will share in again -- their bleak soul's winter, too.
Picture
May we be one anther's summers,
winters,
autumns,
and springs,
when we cannot uphold their qualities on our own.
And may we trust in the seasons and colors which reside in our soul,
and  that inner God-voice which speaks to us all-the-during.

xo
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    This creative and conversational memoir style of blogging is embellished with photographs, sprightly texts, and gentle listening features.​ May these entries be as cathartic to read & to hear as they have been to conceive & to share.​

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