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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
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If you would like to listen along:My tea leaves are telling me:  "Being present with what I have may conjure just enough gratitude to get me to the next moment".
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.
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.
getting close to what is close & taking life one moment at a time has been imperative for the majority of us.
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.  May your literal or figurative tea leaves voice "Peace and Presence" to you & yours in this moment & the uncertain moments to come.   These words from a community crushed, about a community perpetually devastated, were words then held by others sharing in the grief.   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.  Part of my work in (re)purposing is the documentation of the materials I repurpose.  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.     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.   If reading through grievances might help you to cope, on some level, these and other laments can be found on my project page.  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.
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 |  |
-- I feel
hollow.
hollow.
 | 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.
The beauty of this time of year tends to overshadow
the efforts and anguish that make the beauty possible.
the efforts and anguish that make the beauty possible.
Lifeforce takes tremendous exertion
and is habitually laced with aches, failures & disappointments.
and is habitually laced with aches, failures & disappointments.
 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?  |
 | What of the seeds and blossoms that had to die for others to survive?  |
| Or the universes of growth that will never come to be.  The rains that might leave more bruises than nourishment. |  |
 | 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.
 | 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. | 
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If you would like to listen along
All is Melting.
My heart.
My mind.
The world around me.
My mind.
The world around me.
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,  |  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.
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;  |  enveloped by unconditional love, &at times, reminiscent over the conditional genre.  |
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)
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)
 | 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.
 | 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. |
 And those persistent hardened shards cradle those fragments that are rightfully not ready to flow. |  |
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.
| 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
 | There are seeds in my juice. |
| And my house plants are dying. |  |
(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,
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). |  |
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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. |  |
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. |
| ||
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?
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
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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!
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
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.
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.
As I take in the cool,
flat,
wintry haze,
I witness the closest depiction of what my outlook on life has grown to be.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tears of gratitude have far outweighed tears of grief,
thankfully so!
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.
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.
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.
Hi, Dears.
| As much as I can have feelings of real hate for this viciously cold , viciously snowy , viciously freezing , winter season, |
I really am grateful for it.
| Yeah, there is bitterness, and slush, and subzero temperatures, and piles of coldness sitting like a thud mountains, |  |
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:
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...
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.
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. |  |
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.
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.
| 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. |  |
And it did
--the easier part to celebrate.
--the easier part to celebrate.
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.
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.
"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
- Mark Nepo
Ever feel like the color gets flushed out of your life?
Mine has been feeling
that way for about
the last semester.
The deathly feelings
of my fall
and winter have
hit me pretty hard
these seasons, lovies.
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.
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...
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.
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.
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.
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?
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?
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.
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.
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. |  |
 | 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.
May we be one anther's summers,
winters,
autumns,
and springs,
when we cannot uphold their qualities on our own.
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
and that inner God-voice which speaks to us all-the-during.
xo