When the Fire Fades

Ever noticed the over-bubbling of ideas in people fresh out of a workshop? Everything is possible. The world is their playground. Human beings now exist solely to guide them along their path. Suddenly, even grumpy Mr. Ross at the corner seem to smile at them, the sun shines brighter, the 0 in their bank account is an open invite to the universe, and yeah, they probably lost some weight too.

What happens to the magic once the afterglow fades? Reality quickly sucks one back in, and the totally doable idea gets shot further and further out into the cosmos until only a mirage remains. Perhaps it pokes you in the side after a meditation or shakes you up when you dream at night. Certainly the bittersweet taste of an unlived life remains.

How did I ever think I could start a coaching business, I can’t even coach my cat to pee in the box. Become a private yoga teacher, yeah right, I barely threaten myself to do 10 minutes in the morning. A spiritual teacher who drinks wine every week, enjoys multiple partners, and prefers to wear miniskirts and heels would be stoned to death with hate-mail after the first public appearance. And further and further away they go. Ideas, dreams, and visions slip away as preset boundaries close us into our safeguarded comfort zone: a zone of uncomfortable comfort where stagnation rules and disbelief of self reigns supreme.

Are these visions kept safe in a dimension of forgotten futures? Do they wait for us until we’re ready, or forever dissolve?

Burnmarked Bipolar

5 years. No medication. 2 ½ university degrees. 8 countries. And a dozen heartfelt connections later I am still terrified. Scared to death to share my story because of its sacredness. A sacredness more commonly ridiculed, demolished, and locked away than unfolded.

I spent months and years wishing I could wash off my label. But it burned deep into my skin. Like someone tattooed 'psycho' on my forehead. Even after it's been laser removed, the scar tissue remains.

Bipolar. Not just any bipolar. Bipolar type one. Manic depressive. The highest sort of maniac. Infinite times more likely to self-destruct before the age of thirty than ones peers.

No wonder. As I sat in front of my psychologist at the age of twenty-fucking-one and received a paper to file for permanent mental disability, I too would most likely have self-destructed by now if I followed my prescribed path.

Speaking of prescriptions. The cocktail of numbness they shove down your throat hoping you'll forget enough of who you are to ever consider alternatives. I feared myself for years because I was told I was a danger to me. Now, I find it far more dangerous to never face oneself and one’s army of demons and wait until they violently erupt to the surface, than to turn around and say "hi, you're part of me for a reason, I'd like to know why?"

Path, Potential & Perfectionism

Strangled by fear of failure and paralyzed by perfectionism I do nothing but wait. Wait for the day lightning strikes and erases every inclination to self-sabotage.

Until then, I jump forward at any chance to do everyone else’s work but my own. Because I trust myself enough not to fail for others. Why do I then fail myself by not even trying?

I am a writer that never writes, a dancer who never dances, a singer who never sings, and a healer who stopped healing because it hurts too much.

All that makes me me I let be. Because in a twisted way, it is safer to spend my time thinking of doing things, fearing the failure of doing them wrong, and doing other people’s things than actual action for my own satisfaction. All the things I love the most, I also fear to death.

I do actually love my job, but I wonder if I can do my job and my work at the same time? I believe the answer is yes. Not only in the case of me. I think there is a perfect opportunity for people’s day-to-day jobs to feed (or be part of) their higher purpose. Simply notice how what you do now feed into what you might do later, whether it is a skillset, connection, or inspiration. I viscerally felt my writing block start to crumble as I watched a presentation on writing tools yesterday. And today, I finally write again…

Lately, I have taken one step forward professionally and two steps back personally. I am ready to merge these fields and take three collective steps in the right direction. Hopefully, it won’t be as hard once I’ve seen how my job can feed my work, and any action is better than inaction.   

Top Three Telegraph Talk

As a bright, blond being in a pleasantly diverse area, I tend to get noticed, every day (whether I like it or not). Especially on my daily walk to Bart down Telegraph.

Comments range from the classic “damn girl!” to “hey, where you from? You not from around here are ya?”

Every now and then a couple more noteworthy sneaks in, so I made a top three of Telegraph talk:

1. Big dude: Damn girl, you lookin’ fiiine today!

    Big dude’s girlfriend (which I though was getting ready to kick my ass): Hey girl, don’t worry, we swinger’s you know. For real. Hey, wanna come back to our place and play? It’s just around the corner here.

2. Group of people hanging out at the corner-store: Hey Paris! Hey Paris, you forgot your dog! (first, and last time I wear pink AND heels on that stroll. Ever.)

3. Dude in car which howled at me, turned around, drove back, parked his car, and came running after me to talk: Damn girl, I thought you was a sista! You sure you ain’t? You walkin’ round looking like Mariah Carey. (Maybe it’s time to lay of the self-tannning for a while?)

City of Contrasts

There’s room for anything and anyone in the golden city of artists, poets, entrepreneurs and as of recently tech people.

My first day back in the city of diversity: San Francisco, called for a long walk to soak up its atmosphere.

A few highlights from the journey:

·    

The most powerful Goddess wall painting I’ve ever seen.

·         Beautiful, stylish men kissing other beautiful, stylish men.

·         A beggar attempting to remove his last piece of clothing: a turquoise thong. Performed in front of a crowd begging him to please put his clothes back on.

·        The Garden of Eden of Farmers Markets. Fresh goodness as far as the eye can see, providing me with a free basket of blackberries for an extra smile. 

·        Botox infused women of all ages, proudly showing off their latest Louis Vuitton at the Westfield mall.

It’s all here, everything from the gods to an army of fallen angels. Beauty hidden in contrasts and an aura of inspiration. How will I ever be able to leave?

Resurrection

2013 – terrific and terrible.

The year I lost one of my best friends.

The year I started writing again.

The year I left a small town behind.

The year I went back to Thailand.

The year I started my PhD.

The year my grandma stopped to breathe.

2014 – a mystery.

Blank pages in the journal of me.

So many dreams yearning to be set free.

The painter, the poet.

I am so afraid to show it.

The dancer, the healer.

The undefined over-feeler.

Will I find a direction

or will a direction find me?

Blank pages in the journal of me.

Waiting to be filled with what I crave to see.

New friends and lovers.

Oceans to discover.

Disasters and broken dreams.

Silent cries and the loudest screams.

2014 – a mystery.

I can’t wait until it fills up

the empty me.

Reclaiming Christmas

Six years ago, my mother committed suicide six days before Christmas. Needless to say, the holidays weren’t exactly jolly.

In my world, Jesus’ birth never brought anything but broken promises, lumpy gravy, dead pigs, and reindeer sweaters. Adding funerals to the list didn’t make it any better.

As an anti-commercialist vegetarian, the month of misery usually serves to strengthen my position. December forever reminds me of dead family members, despair, and disillusionment. I know I’m not alone. Thousands of people fear the most stressful time of year. At every corner you turn, America’s multi-billion dollar advertising industry gladly reminds you of your inadequacy, lack of money, family, friends, or love of meat. This time of year, there’s no room for you inside society’s norms of normalcy. Here’s the season for depression, heart attacks, suicide, and sorrow.  

As a child, I remember crying desperately outside my mother’s door for hours, hoping she’d come out to share the Christmas meal with grandma and me. Sometimes she emerged from her dark cave right before my dad rang the doorbell. Then she rushed back into her abode of misery. Cursing me for letting the devil in. Other times she stayed in her room until we went home. I left my neatly decorated and carefully selected gifts outside her door along with my tears for years.

Until I realized, I make myself wallow in misery. I don’t have to keep telling myself the same cruel Christmas carol every year. I hold the power to change. The past remains the past, but the future’s all mine. This year, I start making new traditions. I’ll immerse myself in yoga and meditation instead of Macy’s madness. I’ll design cards with personalized poems for my friends. My marinated Tofurky will make meat lovers reconsider their dead birds. I’ll even light a candle for my mother, and pray I can forgive her after six sorrowful years. This year, I reclaim Christmas. Meditation, creation, forgiveness, and flow. Now if that’s not a proper way to celebrate Christ, I don’t know what is.