Mood Lighting~

This morning, a friend of mine called and set me on an errand of sorts. She is redecorating her home on the mainland, and had wanted my opinions on some things. My mission, should I choose to accept it, was to go (cell phone in hand) to the online site of the company she was ordering through, and walk through the offerings with her, as her sounding board of sorts. I thought this sounded kind of fun, so I agreed. We set up a time and coordinated. I logged on, and was set to surf the net, looking for the perfect fit for her and her new home.

By the end of the conversation she was practically begging to get off of the phone—as I, of course, had wandered from the actual task of shopping, into a different world of thought/pondering tangent (as I am prone to do)—getting sidetracked by psychology and semantics as I journeyed further into the land of lights and fixtures and shades, dimmers and timers. For my credit, I started off at every site fully focused on the practical task of finding the right colors, the right “feel,” the perfect piece(s) for my friend’s declared specifications. Yet, I couldn’t help thinking how much this related to life…this whole lighting thing.

As I clicked through the pictures of the track lighting, I marveled at how simply the strategic location of bright lights could instantly highlight a desired point of focus in a room, yet without being jarring or having it feel institutional. This, I was told, was a most ideal setting for displaying a specific work of art, or other desired points of interest, without being too ostentatious. Then there were the halogen lamps…I’d always liked these. They were amazingly able to give off an immense amount of light, but because they focused the rays upward rather than downward, it never felt like “too much” or glaring…perhaps because the majority of the light and heat were not pointed directly at the individual seeking illumination.

Then there were the lights that had shades on them. Some coverings were hideous in color…bright and brash—and *gasp * tacky to the tee. There were tassels, beads, designs, and (I mean it) even….feathered shades. Some shades were almost see- through in their thinness and translucent nature—others were so opaque that the light was almost completely swallowed up in the bowels of their blocking hues.

There were timers on the really modern lights that they were selling. You could apparently program them to shine brightly for a certain amount of time before having them either dim gradually, or shut off completely at a designated hour. The dimmers could be tuned to fade according to the needs and tastes of each owner---running the gamut from bright and brilliant—boldly filling the room— to the opposite extreme of leaving a somber and mellow ambience; barely lit and neutral toned.

----

I listened patiently as my friend shared her * lengthy * thoughts on each of the options. We weighed together the pros and cons connected with the purchase of every item. As the conversation progressed, I realized * pragmatist that I often am * that she had no idea (or concern, apparently) for the different costs of these items. Rather, our entire conversation and deliberations had completely revolved around how the lights/ lighting made her feel. It was as if money was of no importance in comparison to the need for a “perfect fit” (as she called it). The “perfect fit” for what she wanted to welcome her home everyday…the “perfect fit” for what she needed to feel at peace and rest sitting beneath, and surrounding her—day in and day out. I understood this “perfect fit” of which she spoke.

----

I often pray that I will go throughout my day and be a reflection of “light and joy” to people with whom I come into contact. This day has made me revisit that prayer over and over in my head. Yes, I very much do still want this….but now I want to be more specific in that prayer. What kind of light…not the glaring kind….that in-your-face-give-you-a-migraine-flourescent light (no, thank you). Instead, I want to be a sweet, soothing light, yet not so dim that it lulls people to sleep, or that they cannot find their way around to get anything accomplished—rather I want to be the light that is bright enough to allow them to see their world clearly--beautifully (painting their surroundings in the best likeness possible—highlighting the happy colors, the neutral soothing tones, and the shades that will give them hope—and set them at ease—surround them in peace).

I am still a work in progress….but now I have a more specific goal in mind, and prayer in heart. As I go about my day(s)...what kind of light do I want to be? What kind of light am I right now?

Home for the Holidays~

Holidays.

The holiday season has always been a bit emotional for me. I am not sure if it is more the break in my normal routine, the sometimes hectic busyness of a full month’s worth of parties/ friends/ gatherings/ family, the build up of anticipation of that December 25^th day, travel and traffic, stampedes at the local shopping mall, or the inevitable fact that someone (at least one) that I love will most likely not make it home for the holidays.

This year, that “someone”—was me.

Not only did I not make it home for the holidays, but I was spending my December in a tropical setting…with friggin’ palm trees, not pines…surrounded by swimsuits versus snow. Not exactly the climate for all the Christmas spirit to easily ooze from every picturesque pore. Do not get me wrong, I will never complain about being able to swim in the ocean, or wear a sundress with barefeet in the middle of winter, but there is something you miss (that feels almost out of body experience) when those Christmas carols begin to play over the radio of your car, as the AC is cranked full blast.

The entire month, once I embraced the fact that getting back to my family in NC was entirely out of the question, I focused on not focusing on the dreaded December 25^th. ( I had looked several times at the ticket prices skyrocketing before my very eyes as the inevitable day approached….telling myself * maybe * I would just smoke the Visa and surprise my sisters and little elven nieces.) However, I finally came to the conclusion that ‘smoking’ was the understatement of the year…at these prices, ‘Incineration’ was more like it. * Sigh *

So. Now. What?

My boyfriend, I could tell, was already worrying…although he is not by nature a worrying type at all, I know him well enough by now to see the telltale signs of unease that rarely registers in his physique. The furrowed brow, the watchful eye from afar (taking me in—measuring if and when a call to the local mental institution will be necessary, perhaps?), the ready and open arms—poised for the plethora of hugs that were no doubt needed (and mercifully supplied) as the season slowly slinked onward. Growing up in the islands, he had never really had the wintry wonderland (nor the Southern sweetness of home and over the top holiday hutzpah) Christmas experience in order to go through the withdrawal symptoms that I seemed to be suffering from. But I could tell he sympathized, albeit in a “Oh-my- gosh,-WTF-is-WRONG-with-her-and-is-she-gonna-snap-out-of-it-soon?!?!?” kind of a way.

The beautiful man even got to the point where he offered to send me home himself…a true gift and sacrifice…although the incineration of his plasticware was no more appealing to me either. Nope…it was decided we would just make the best of it…but how?

If any of you know me, you know I am one stubborn, hard-headed little sassafras (and proud of it!). So I figured all I needed to do, was decide and determine to be happy this holiday. That worked for, oh, I dunno—a day? And then that d**n radio dial would land on a Christmas carol that would knock me (and all of my self-assured optimism) flat on my a**! Back to square one…I realized I needed an entirely new and different plan of attack…and yes, it really was that way in my mind…a battle for my sanity---and to save Christmas from the depression monster, by gosh!

Plan B:

· I LET GO: of traditions, of memories I was clinging to—trying to recapture.

· I RELEASED: the frustration of feeling “stuck here” (in Paradise, no doubt---geez, andy beth)

· I GOT OVER: my expectations of how this Christmas thing “should be”—and over MYSELF.

· I DETERMINED: to embrace all that is GOOD, HERE AND NOW.

-----------

It is December 26^th. And, miraculously, I was able to get home to spend yesterday with family. And no, it was not in NC…it was a house filled with surfers and pixies…seekers and so(ul)journers just like me…sisters and brothers who have chosen one another willingly…and for this reason, are connected in a deep and inexplicable bond---we CHOSE one another. We, living on this island out in the middle of the Pacific, far away from all we know as home and the comforts connected with it, seem to have realized that we need one another— and we cling to each other—lift one another up—rescue one another daily—a cohesive collection of crazy beach bums who have built a makeshift life raft in the midst of this ocean.

I swam in the sea. I built a SANDman. I wore my favorite sundress, and painted my bare toes a glittering red and gold. Christmas met me here and now….at home.

Mosiac of Myself

28 years I have had.

Almost three decades down--bending over this jigsaw puzzle of my life. Pieces strewn about—their jagged edges at times maddening. Every once in awhile, the edges connect—gliding into one another with effortless cohesion. Same shadings, matching colors, the contoured lines blending into the background as the separating seams all but disappear.

Looking back, it has been these times that were such a source of consolation to me. Comforting somehow, to think and feel life “fitting,”—to know I was learning and applying such skill at being able to neatly and beautifully find the perfect pieces that correspond to one another—all the while in my mind seeing the amazing masterpiece of art that would result in the end—if only I could keep honing my skills…finding the right pieces—to complete the design~

I have always wondered what exactly the complete puzzle would look like. When I was very young, the pieces were entirely pastel…a beachscape is what I childishly assumed would result…I could imagine the soft blues spreading out to connect with one another, sweetly residing above the soft waves of seafoam green lapping against an earth-toned shore. The pale yellows I saw peeking around the edges of the puzzle pieces could only mean sunshine—and lots of it—but never glaring or too bright. Yes, I could see the puzzle of my life being completed, and as such, being worthy of any Boca Raton retirement community art collection bar none…so soothing and sterile—light and serene it was.

But as I have grown, something astounding has occurred. MORE puzzle pieces have appeared among the table I sit at. As I spread them out, I sense fear and confusion welling up within me—anger and frustration—fast on its heels. I see the colors spread out before me among the previous soothing blues and greens. Red…bright and vibrant—jarring my mind as I try to wrap my thoughts around it. What business can red have on my beach? A brilliant purple presents itself along the edges of the ledge, and I began to reel. Lavender possibly, but this is a shrill, shockingly loud hue of hyacinth. The brightness does not blend! An onslaught of abstract pieces begin to reveal themselves….so many of them. And the edges—like daggers—sharp and fierce—the seams screaming—unwilling to be silenced.

In direct contrast, a new color crashes in. Brown and boring…shapeless slabs, edges so smooth that I fear it will be difficult to differentiate one from the other…making the puzzle almost impossible to decipher.

My jigsaw puzzle is ruined. I gasp as the fit of panic rises within me…I cannot make this work. My masterpiece is ruined. The sweet, serene beachscape ebbs away. I am left with a hodgepodge of clashing colors and crude, unpolished shapeless shards.

I cannot make sense of it all. I am angry at God for giving me these new ugly pieces to deal with—they do not fit in the beautiful design…they are ruining the art. Overwhelmed in fear and frustration, I fling the pieces to the floor—pushing away from the table—as far away as I can get from the disorganized disaster He has thrust upon me. I flee the room. I cannot bear to look any longer.

--------

I have since returned—vowing to pick up the pieces and salvage whatever it is that I can…

has it been hours? Days? Years? I cannot say…all I know is….I was so wrong. I am no jigsaw at all…never was I intended to be...

As the door opens, and the light floods onto the scene of my destruction, I finally see---the ruined “Jigsaw puzzle”—the hideous failure I had been blinded by…my previous shame and confusion…myself...illuminated~

Extreme Makeover: Today's Guest-- Encouragement~

I’ve often been told I am an encouraging person. I am always so happy to hear it. I love to think that something—anything that I have said or done could have helped someone I love to feel better about themselves, feel stronger, feel more loved, or even just ease their days a bit—help them get through whatever they are going through at the moment. In fact, I have always felt that the role of encourager is one of (if not the) highest callings in this life.

I have changed my mind.

This past week I was on the phone with a very good friend, a friend who has become almost a mentor of sorts, a big brother who I thank God for daily. This friend was asking me about my life, and I was sharing with him about what had been going on—my hopes—my dreams—my goals—my prayer requests. He wasted not one breath before affirming to me verbally that “You can do it, AB!” and “All of these goals are realistic” and “You have a gift, and I know God has an amazing purpose for your life!”

I felt immediately encouraged. And I thought, “I can get through this day, because God has sent my friend with words to sustain me and keep me going one more day.” Just as I was thanking God for this encouragement and sustenance, I noticed that my friend was not finished. He went on to actually sit down with me and talk through exactly how I was going to take the first step(s) to actively move towards accomplishing all of my heart’s dreams and hopes and goals.

He prayed with me right there, on the phone…yes, actually prayed—not just let me know he was going to pray for me—he prayed with me right then and there. We made a list—we walked through how to make a website (step by maddening step). We worked out my budget. We made phonecalls. We signed me up for a yoga class and healing workshop to quiet my heart and mind. We made small changes in my diet (I feel better already). We made progress.

As I think of this friend, every time I remember him in thanks and praise to God—I try to pinpoint what it is about him that is such a gift. Why I always cannot wait to talk to him. Why I value him as I do. Why I long to seek time with him, and feel such a lightening and hopefulness when I leave him. Today, I figured it out.

He does not encourage me in my life. He empowers me.

He does not tell me nice things, to help me feel better so I can make it through the day. He physically takes my hand, pulls me up on my feet and walks with me.

This new way of seeing my friend challenges me in my friendships. I wonder back now, when a friend has shared with me their biggest fears, or discouragements, or even prayer requests—have I offered them some flowery sounding platitude or scripture verse? (To be sure, scripture is powerful and a gift to us all)…but next time, and from now on….I want to not worry as much about making them feel so good about themselves by what I say, so that they can survive that day—but rather take their hand, walk with them (make a darn list), and have them feel good about themselves because they had the tools and power to create their day.

Kenophobia...empty spaces, blank pages~

Wastebasket overflowing,

Reruns of that Shamwow guy *and every other 2am infomercial * on loop,

Inkwell’s full belly,

Temper tantrums flare

Empty pages,

Redrafting-->rambling-->rut-->repeat.

Silence, screaming

Banging forehead, *table * * wall *

Loose Ponytail, sweatpants, Wrigley’s spearmint, that millionth cup of coffee,

Optimism out the window

Clustering’s a crock!

Kenophobia kicking in…

Wabi sabi~

I have two mothers. A biological mother, and a spiritual mother (although there are no real words to do her justice). Birthing me into this world, and into the woman I am daily becoming, I thank God for you both.

My spiritual mother mentors. She teaches me, chides me, frustrates the snot out of me…and relays truth to me—in unexpected times and avenues—and always for this (usually/ admittedly most of the time long after the * revelation times *) I am profoundly grateful.

One such truth seed was planted in my heart and mind by her with the introduction to the concept of “wabi sabi.” It was when I was living with her on her farm, and I was seeking the peace and tranquility and life that her home seemed to exude from its very core—covering every inch of the dwelling—from the rooftop to the rugs.

She knew what I was seeking *she always has, I believe * was wabi sabi—to be embraced, understood, acknowledged—and truly lived~

“Pared down to its barest essence, wabi-sabi is the Japanese art of finding beauty in imperfection and profundity in nature, of accepting the natural cycle of growth, decay, and death. It's simple, slow, and uncluttered-and it reveres authenticity above all.”

Barest essence.

Finding Beauty in Imperfection.

Accepting Life (and Death) in its Natural State.

Simple.

Slow.

Uncluttered.

And, my favorite…wait for it….authenticity above all.

After hearing just this concept from her, I became insatiable in my research--of what I now see as a salvation of sorts in my life. Wabi sabi exists everywhere, in everything, if we can only cultivate it—or moreso—allow it to exist and embrace it--as it is daily right in front of our very eyes…right there—hidden beneath all of our clutter, our drama—our masochistic quest for unbending perfection.

Wabi sabi is even known in the art and interior design world…it is minimalist. It strips away the clutter, the garish colors and austentatious, gaudy accoutrements—all that is unnecessary—leaving only a stark and striking, austere beauty.

I see wabi sabi much as a challenge (to me I am saying…take what you will) to dare to take off the delusional/ life stealing/ grass is always greener/ covetous of others/ rose-colored glasses…and gaze upon this world…the world in which I now live…in all its sepia toned splendor…and begin to see the radiance--of simple shadings--shadings that only light and dark provide. Yes, the light and the dark. The shadows and coal black lines casting a poignant contrast to the radiance of the alabaster angles…making up this masterpiece of balanced “be-ing.”

Wabi sabi…applauding that quiet, undeclared beauty and grace…silently, patiently, waiting to be unearthed from beneath the “other”—I praise life that you exist…and that in the light and perspective of you—even I, am breathtaking~

Let Em' Know~

This past week the islands where I live have mourned the loss of one of their own. A world champion surfer, Andy Irons, unexpectedly passed away. He left a young, beautiful widow and a unborn baby boy on this earth…too soon.

As I watched the local news, and made my way throughout the community these last few days, it has been touching. An outpouring of love, aloha, respect and compassion has saturated the surf community. From fellow champions and contenders sharing their favorite memory, to younger teens attesting to the fact that Andy was many of their main inspirations to begin their love affair with the water and waves—all speak of Andy with such warmth and care.

I hope he knew how much he was loved while he actually lived on this earth. I wonder if these same people shared that love, warmth and care then?

I ask myself who in my life do I love and care for? Who makes my life bright and beautiful? And who do I not want to wait until it is too late to let them know….NOW?

Suns and Beaches....and Democracy~

Sign reads: “Yes We Can!”

Tho’ the man in front of “we”

Slightly disagrees…

Long line—and I wait

Audience to hems and haws

man’s face getting red

his volume rises

neck veins strain—it ain’t pretty

this rocking the vote

speaking of rocking-

he must own a boat--somewhere

maybe north? Must be!

Why yes….Nan-tucket…

He shouts only of this place…

its suns and beaches….

Line dies down—my turn

Nan-tucket! Suns and beaches!

It all becomes clear

Whining, complaining

When there are boats to be sailed!

free suns and beaches~

Sign reads: “Yes We Can”

Thank God “we” begins with me.

oh democracy…

Baby's Got a Brand New "Do"~

I was a nanny for just about the cutest little girl in the world a few years ago. This child has spunk. She is sassy, and stubborn, and deliciously full of sweetness AND spice. (And the ‘and’ is the oh so very important part!)

It is always interesting to me to listen to adults’ reactions, or to observe their behavior upon encountering and (ahem) “conversing” with children. The words “sweet,” “adorable,” “angel,” “princess,” and “beautiful” always seem to replay like they were rotating around a magical Disney DJ’s turntable….and all is happy songs filled with soothing piccolo trills and melodious harpsichord harmonies…* tra- la- la* (cue cherubic smile and floating on air parents here_____)….and as I think of this familiar scene and cycle….(I can already feel the cavities from sugar shock practically sucking the enamel from my soul…er…teeth)…sweetness overload. Enter the sudden scratch on the vinyl--*EEEEK! * --speed it up and make it funky—get down, get down! And some do…thank God.

Yes, praise be to the children that introduce some sassafras! I applaud your passion-filled, devil-may-care, “deviant” spirits! Your spontaneity and unpredictable eruptions of emotionally driven exploits make me feel just a little less old and crusty. Passionate little pixies, I am beholden to you for the blessings that you are to this soul—you bring refreshment to a fat and arid world of too much sweetness—I long to drown myself in the waters of your whimsical ways (We, of course, will jump off the deep end...doing a tuck and roll into a cannonball upon entrance, shan’t we?) —I can already see the look on the "dry ones'" doused faces…would the caption read: shock….exasperation…envy?)

This week a child got a new hairdo. The closest way I can possibly describe this “do” (or what her parents might very well call a “don’t”?) is what you might get if Dog the Bounty Hunter miraculously procreated with Billy Ray Cyrus-- and they birthed a little girl who apparently would enjoy both a party and business if asked….

This haircut was the impulsive act of my little charge I previously mentioned. Her father just recently posted pictures with the single caption: “No repentance!”..... And there was none! Ha! That little spunky sprite stares straight into the camera and owns it….owns that hideous haircut—so shocking that I cannot look away…I am taken aback….mesmerized…drawn to…the courage. The aliveness I feel when I look at the action she took…snip, snip, snip….cutting away at the ties that bind---the cares and worry of what people might think.. All she knew is that she felt the need for a haircut…it seemed simpler to just do it herself…and she did. Snip, snip, snip…she cut because she could, and because she wanted to…and because she wasn’t afraid.

When I looked at those pictures, two things happened:

First: I promptly scanned and copied them all (in order to add to the plethora of paraphernalia I will most assuredly have the great pleasure of busting out at her wedding reception one day)~

Second: I realized that little Liana had reminded me of a beautiful truth this day:

This was not just a haircut, this was a declaration of independence (from expectations), a peace treaty (with herself), and a pint-sized middle finger raised (to whoever looked at her funny that day--obviously not appreciating the brilliant artwork now adorning her crown--oh yeah)~

You go, little girl~

Putting Faces with Names~

As I read the passages tonight, I see myself in many faces, hear myself answering to their names:

-I am Mary Magdalene, whoring myself out for a pittance, not realizing the inheritance I already possess.

-I am Saul, with my misguided, murderous intent—blinded while traveling down a road destined for destruction.

-I am Samson, weakened by human (and misplaced) love—made frail at the hands of the one I (foolishly) trusted the most.

-I am Pilot, my cowardice is costly, its ripple effect I have only begun to discern.

-I am Peter. I run when I should walk—speak when I shouldn’t talk---my fits of passion are not accepted kindly, as peace and patience are words of the day.

-I am Judas Iscariot, trusted steward—only to turn and betray—greed getting the better of me—I now hang—my head in shame—my heart in sorrow—my body among the twisted branches.

-I am Barrabas, unworthy recipient of this second chance, escorted from my prison-- I stagger away from the gallows…free.

-I am Cain, my jealousy has killed many things…I walk alone in exile, the ground beneath me lies barren and fallow.

-I am David, not yet the king… small, lowly shepherd—I long to dance in the streets and sing—golden harps and waving arms.

-I am Delilah, sapping the strength of those I claim to love— I cut with words, with selfishness, with pride. they are weakened—and I am to blame.

-I am Absalom, overtaken with righteous anger—my sisters have been dishonored.

-I am Esau, my eyes short-sighted—my greedy, gluttonous mind bargains away my blessings.

-I am Jezebel, my idolatry has ripped me apart limb from limb—the hounds of heaven tearing at my amethyst cloak.

-I am Tamar, I have been dishonored—I have been broken and used. I am bitter—angry at injustice. I am seething—shamed—and saddened by what did not have to be—by this world that makes no sense.

-I am still Mary Magdalene…but now I have grown my hair---I have broken an alabaster box. I have knelt low, and I have raised high—my eyes—my song—my soul. I have been washing feet—been washing—been washed—clean.

~I am loved, I don't know why~

Leaving Home~

Many of you already know I left Hawaii and came to North Carolina this week.

It was a full week.

I missed home—and reveled in home—embraced home—and drowned in home.

I sensed home—was overwhelmed with home—made peace with home. I hungered and was starved for home—and feasted on home. I gave thanks at home—sought truth at home. I found home—and lost myself in home.

I stepped on a plane and flew far—and found closeness. Fears were faced, and giants were defeated—leaving only shrinking shadows.

I left home for home…and reveled in the radiance of Autumnal air…it was cleared…and it was fresh.

One week passed…too short for comfort….too lengthy to remain unattached.

Yet, I step in this plane, leaving home for home…I arrive to bask in the warmth of sun’s shining…knowing it will rise again each morning from this day forward—heralding the newness~

And I will look around me and give thanks for my home.

And I will close my eyes, set off across this ocean, and remember in praise (with prayers) my home.

Allowance(s)~

Anybody remember allowances from growing up? I remember my friends having them...a certain amount of money *usually pretty modest* that their parents would allocate to them each week. Usually it involved an exchange of the green in return for domestic chores, or helping out in a number of ways. My friends would mostly use their funds for going to the movies, or clothes, or (once we hit middle school) “hot” dates ;) And man, those bowling alleys and arcades were off the hook! We were so cool...swingin' hipsters, I tell you~

As for me, I do not remember an allowance. I do recall regarding the concept of them as being a bit foreign. Even the name, "allowance" carries such a loaded and strange connotation to it. In my home, my sisters and I were simply expected to help around the house as members of the family. The thought of getting otherwise rewarded (besides a deeply felt "thank you!" from my amazing momasita) was equally as alien. If I wanted money for spending or something extra....(say...like perhaps meeting that smokin' boy at the mall and cruising around all TWO of the shops until our moms came to get us in the matching mini vans...around 9pm...* live it up!*) then I babysat, or found other odd jobs apart from regular washing of the dishes and keeping our family home clean. The funniest thing is that I don't remember being annoyed by this fact that I had no allowance. I felt it was not "owed" to me simply for helping my mom out around the house, and for being a contributing member of the family—pitching in wherever was needed.

Today I am thinking of adult allowance(s). I see many of them...but as adults we are no longer supplied by our parents, and it seems to be of a much different, and less tangible, genre of "green." As a (ahem) grown up, I feel I receive an allowance (of sorts) everyday...from the world. I see this presenting itself in various forms---as love, acceptance, encouragement, and affirmation, etc…

I also, at the ripe old age of 28, am looking at this allowance...of love, of acceptance, of encouragement, of affirmation...and beginning to ask myself...what is expected of me to earn such a sum this week? Is there a list someone could please post on the fridge? (You know, the kind with small checkboxes perhaps? Or a honeydew melon graphic on the top--sous smiley-faced green gourd attached?) No? Well that would be too simple and straightforward, then, wouldn’t it?

In our world, I wonder what the “acceptable” labor and toil required of me is/ would be….and I wonder if I secretly deep down feel the need to “earn” my allowance…or even worse, if I walk around with an attitude of being “owed” (and hence, demanding of the world) this allotment. Either attitude, I have a sneaking feeling, will get me a pittance (and a begrudging one at that).

So, I’ve a mind to do away with this whole allowance business! I believe it best if I follow the practice of my youth. I will have a deep awareness that (although most definitely worthy of provision and goodness) I am not “owed” anything by anyone. I will simply throw my full efforts into claiming my role as an integral and contributing (without reservation—or expectation) member of this non-biological brotherhood I satellite around daily. In turn, I will not feel this need to “earn” anything—for there will be no formal offering of payment.

It will be as before…my needs will be met…all that is required to sustain comes for those that are family…ohana…and who live, and move, and have their being as an integral piece of the whole. Seeking the “green” now takes on a whole new meaning:

G-rowth

R-efreshment

E-ncouragement

E-nrichment

N-ewness~

May we all have more than enough green to sustain us—never feeling owed—never having to earn—but rather stepping up, and serving up…as siblings~

Refresh~

Lately I have been having a plethora of computer glitch issues. It’s so slow, or cuts out, or kicks me offline without notice. (Stephanie Tanner’s sentiments explain my feelings exactly: how rude, indeed~)

I have found in trying to troubleshoot with these problems, that if I simply hit the refresh button on the site….it fixes the issue, at least for a time. I have often wished there were a refresh (or let’s face it, even a delete) button in life… * for when the page we are on gets tired…or “freezes up,” …stagnant and still….NOTHING GOING….stalled. I’d simply hit that refresh…and there is a recharge, a rejuvenation…the page is cleared and we trusty little computers are freed and enabled to go on about our same business as before. Oh, sounds wonderful.

A techie friend of mine tried explaining to me in simple terms why computers freeze up like mine has been lately (I felt like I was living a “How To, for Dummies” book during said conference, but was grateful nonetheless for the better understanding gleaned). He shared with me that the computer gets tired, and if it has been going for too long a period of time without being “refreshed,” or even turned off and given a complete rest, it will begin to slow…sometimes even quitting and freezing up completely; unable to accomplish the sole purpose(s) that it was (and is) intended for.

My friend knowingly looked up at me, and gingerly took my laptop from my inexperienced (and impatiently taskmaster driving) hands. He shifted the mouse to hover over a small arrow, clicking just once. The icon spun slightly, and, just like that, the page was revived and humming again. All he had to do was help me to stop, find the right key, and allow my computer to be revived…somedays even to completely stop expecting it to work for me, and let it be at rest. No expectations…no demands.

No expectations.

No demands.

Just Rest.

And Refresh....

I want to be a human refresh button.

Activate~

DEACTIVATION…

It all sounds so…final…*Bum, Bum, Bum!!!* So very “CIA” / espionage-esque…I dunno. But what I DO know, is that this special agent is overwhelmed, and is looking for the words to describe what she is feeling. Heck, she would even be happy to know what her real name is! All she knows lately is her calling card from this crazy online world where they speak in terms of “spyspeak”.…”That’s Miller…Andy Miller”…and I am shaken AND stirred as of late it seems. So, that would make me Agent 00something…but what?

As I glanced at the Facebook page, with the glaring option to “Deactivate” staring me down….another D-word came to mind. DRAMA. I’ve realized that, in the midst of this self-exploration (and * not so * quarter-life crisis season of life)…I have grown an appendage. I now have two “faces” in my life. One physical, which (apparently) can be read like a book (often causing embarrassment to no end, and not to mention making me a complete liability at the poker table!), and the other, an inanimate, glamorously glittering movie-star status mugg…a countenance I can best only describe as an “online airport” of sorts (people-watching to no end)…pun intended~

Now, I don’t know about you, but I was taught in grade school (mostly out in the schoolyard….during recess…from much bigger/ older children…by a soaking wet swirlie…a wedgie…a swift kick in the pants…or a pride-stinging slap) that being two-faced was NOT something desirable. Hence, my dilemma. What to do with this new limb?

Is it something that can only be survived by completely severing its presence? I tried this…and was left feeling legless…disconnected from my body…limping along. The “amputation” left me feeling as if I was lagging behind my peers. Worried that I would be disqualified from the race because I was not registered as an “official” runner…with a number on my back...or was that an official page? (I digress.)

I had to come away….and yes, it is extreme, this deactivation. But sometimes I find it necessary..because then it allows me to extremely delve into WHAT it was in the first place giving me the idea that I needed a break….WHAT was so overwhelming to me? With facebook, there are so many things I could pinpoint. Do not get me wrong…I find it neither evil nor good as an entity unto itself. It just “is.” Much of Facebook’s power, I am realizing, lies in what it becomes (or is allowed to become).

It can become the black hole…a vortex of swirling, mixed messages coming at us from all angles…offering many things, yet most of which come up empty. Since this is a blog with which I have promised to use myself as the main fodder…I will only speak for myself (no judgments or projections upon anyone but this 00something). What began to bother me most was that I found myself coming home each day, and the very first thing I checked was my page. I would rush to the notifications and the messages, the little child inside begging the question…*who loves me?* and *someone message me some small encouragement, telling me it is all going to be okay…assuring me that I am going to be okay!*

For one inanimate object (my little trusty laptop) to have so much power (real or created) is no longer acceptable to me. For me to be (either) validated—or completely deflated….based on the mere presence (or absence) of a tiny little red flag at the top of a blinking *bleepin’ * screen, is self-defeating and masochistic. I need to no longer run home asking the question: “Who loves me?” and "Will I be okay?" but rather carry around with me always the answer: I love me...and I am better than okay.

So, now for the hard part…working on that answer….everyday…more and more.

Activate.

Year of Jubilee~

She is a simply complicated girl.

Fearless. Headstrong. Crown full of curls.

Gilded, golden, with violet hues

Timid, Fragile. This Maker’s muse.

Reigning, rule-ridden, o’er this dichotomy:

Soul’s royalty. Mind and Body’s peasantry.

Daily seeking guidance, this princess will be.

Neither black nor white…mais non, elle est gris~

Maintenant, as this little one sees and is seen.

The world wakens to life…thrives with green.

The newness, the wholeness, this birth’s beginning

Ushers forth such seasons of healing.

Woman-child…you are an intricate maze to decipher.

Breathtaking beauty traces your lines and letters.

What words shall you form, among this sea?

This ocean of life, your year of jubilee?

Say What~

Just yesterday I got an opportunity to meet a friend in Maui, all expenses paid. * Ask me if I took the offer?* (Duh!) I packed my backpack, then proceeded to coax and cajole my battered bug along the Kamehameha Highway…heart excited and bent towards the promise of a fun-packed, carefree weekend getaway. I arrived and met my friend.

Memory lane was traversed….in actuality, it seems more like ‘skipping’ would describe our chosen state of mind/ mode of transportation into the path of our pasts. The short, inter-island flight literally (and figuratively) flew by as we caught one another up on present day shenanigans and what-nots.

I soon realized, however, that underneath this peaceful and poised exterior, there lied a pained and bleeding spirit. After several hours of conversation *and just as many (okay, if not more) glasses of wine,* I had heard the full story. I had gone over in minute detail the plot that pained my friend so much. I felt I had met them there, had practically memorized the sorrow-filled script that had brought them to the islands in search of an escape.

My initial instinct when I see friends in pain is to want to fix it…to make that pain stop…to obliterate any hardship and suffering from their entire sphere of being. Yet I remembered something that a friend had shared with me in my past emotional purgatories. I remember I was in the middle of a breakdown * tears, Kleenex, runny nose, asthmatic wheezing, blithering…(you get the picture)*. I mean, I was really going at it, letting myself ‘speak truth’, allowing free reign to fully ‘FEEL these feelings’ and giving myself permission to ‘release them’ * oh, with gusto! * As I looked up, naively expectant of being greeted with sighs of sympathy, a heart melted, and a compassionate countenance, I was instead met with a fixed, expressionless stare (straight through the core of me did her eyes slice,) and a bold, monotone: “Well, that does suck Andy…SO NOW WHAT?”

As this flashback reverberated in my brain, the remembrance of its healing (albeit shocking) quality (and my reluctant acceptance of this reality of responsibility to move towards positive action) bolstered me towards my own brash move…

I repeated this same question to my friend. The scene played out in response was eerily familiar. I received the same shocked silence....followed by that momentary mulling of the mind (I imagined a spout of steam tufting through earlobes as I waited)…the sharp intake of breath (I believe as the pain of hearing hard truth is processed and compartmentalized)…the exhale of realization/ resignation/ acceptance of the reality that is…and then…then… the eyes raised to meet my gaze (as if my own mirror). To meet me here (wherever “here” is)…to look that daunting question square in the eye:

So.

Now.

What?

We don’t usually know right away. I sure as hell don’t have the answers…but I do know that there is always room for this question…with every breath…in every moment…a challenge for growth, a spur towards change… a catalyst championing forward motion.

I head home today, back to the life I love. I am happy and hopeful…yet have a newfound awareness….

I am responsible.

I go now...the next what awaits~

Meet Me In The Morning~

Early morning. I have spent many days like this lately…waking as the world sleeps, fumbling for my coffee cup to go, sleepily slurping my liquid speed, while racing down the dark, deserted road in order to meet my date. I like to get there first…so I can be waiting as he arrives. It is in those quiet moments…the still, silent seconds spent just before I see his face, that are priceless to me. The anticipation never ceases to bring the butterflies to my belly (they are flying high with the expectant joy of spending time with him too it seems).

The awareness that he is coming to meet me, reduces me to that giddy schoolgirl, (you know her)…the one standing on the side of that gymnasium wall at the school dance…giggling uncontrollably and praying under her breath for him to ask her to come 'cut the rug.' *And he does…oh, how he always does *~

We have a standing engagement, he and I. He has never missed, not even once. I, however, (much to my shame) have often (and still do) stand him up. Usually it is because I get lazy and would rather sleep in. Or, other days, I just promise myself I will make it to see him tomorrow, and that this somehow will suffice…that this will be enough for me. Any way you look at it, I am not there because I take him for granted. I forget what he does for me...who he is to me...how he makes everything better without saying a word somehow.

Yet, despite my neglect, he remains patient and forgiving...faithful even. This loyalty, and lack of all bitterness, is probably supported by the fact that he knows without a doubt that if I were to ever abandon our morning trysts, there is a constant stream of women around at any given time that flock to him, admiring his beauty and feeling privileged just to be in his presence. (I believe in some cultures he would even be considered a god of sorts, I tell you!)

Women fall at his feet (men too, even). I have actually even seen one woman saying prayers to him. People stop to take his picture…he always smiles kindly. Any angle is his best side, don’t you know? He shines with divine goodness. The sweetness of his countenance radiates and touches all. Healing to the heart, any would be blessed to spend even a moment with him. I am such a woman... Most Blessed. Every day.

So, yes, this morning, I showed up. I intentioned to do so. I set that d**ned alarm clock (only hit snooze twice!) I dragged myself out of that warm, cozy purple puff of heaven (also known as the “Purple Cloud”) I said a prayer (more for the other people I would pass on the roads BEFORE the caffeine had time to pulse its perky power through my veins).…and I made it just in time.

I watched as he playfully peeked his nose around the corner…granting me with only small glances at first (he always was such a delightful tease). I remained patient….happy just that he was there with me. Hopeful that he would be able to stay for the entire day…just to let me bask in his presence. He came closer…so tall…towered above me and smiled down. That grin…glowed. I lifted my chin, closed my eyes, and willed everything on earth to silence. This morning I am selfish. I will not share. He cradles my upturned face gently. Tenderly kissed like I have never been before, I find myself at peace in his presence.

My sanctuary.

My sun.

Changing Room~

It has been one month now since I have returned home from what most have dubbed my “journey round the world”. It is an eerie feeling to return home after being gone…to purpose oneself towards reassimilation---towards reintegration into what is actually YOUR world. It feels strange. It feels surreal. And (of course, in any transitional process I seem to encounter of late) it feels SCARY.

I find myself pushing; rushing towards an idealistic return of yesterday’s sentiments, cherished friendships, and familiar feelings—when in reality, I wonder if I mightn’t just relax and receive a welcoming today? Yes, I know, I think too much….and I might also * perhaps * analyze things to death, or at least until there is no outwardly visible semblance of breath left within my imagination’s mind *it having been running wild all day most likely *. However, with thought comes contemplation….and, hopefully, such contemplation creates change.

Change. I shudder at the mere word. Shivers run down my spine at the thought of the unkown arriving at my doorstep—uninvited—unannounced—and most assuredly unfamiliar to my acquaintance. Most of my life, this is how I have viewed change. A scary, unwelcome visitor crashing in (uninvited I might add) upon my peaceful, domestic bliss—disrupting my everyday routine—and in doing so, rocking my little boat as it was merrily rowing along life’s (predictable) dreaminess.

Since I have been home, and have found it to be (although not necessarily tangibly changed) different than what I had maybe expected to see, feel, and even “be”—I am attempting to approach this whole idea of change with (if not a warm, fuzzy welcome) at least a reception not including a necklace of garlic, or a silver crucifix.

I came home early. I had had enough of world traveling and foreign seeking. It is good to be home. I do not desire to be anywhere else in the world but here. Yet, in my heart, there is something I cannot quite place. A feeling. Not regret, no, definitely not that. Not quite resignation (for I am too happy to be here for that description to hold true).

Restlessness? Ah, yes. That must be it. Restless with home? No. Restless with myself? My life? My circumstances? –A startling, first-time-ever answer of “NOPE!” shocks even me to utter—but no. I know it to be a restlessness WITHIN the change. DURING the change. Minutes, to days, to weeks, to one month now….of transition. Today, as each day before, I am pursuing the peace within the process.

Most days, like today, this peace finds me--holds my shaking hands, and quiets my quivering heart.

Other days, it seems to shun me, and I am left feeling cold, unsteady and unsure.

Every day, I know I will be a part of this process whether I like it or not…so today (as I pray each day to come) I choose to engage…to face forward…to stand rather than cower…and to trust…understanding as I do now, that peace is not always palpable~

Enough~

One Girl. Nine destinations. Five countries. Fourteen Flights. Eleven hotels. Six passport stamps. One camera. Twelve photo albums. Six new brothers. Four reunions. Two care packages. One backpack. Two pairs of running shoes. Three marriage proposals (yes…really). Thirty swims across a sea. At least nine meltdowns (that’s one per destination for all you math wizzes out there…) Countless boxes of tissues (only slightly fewer fetal positions crouched in a corner). A smattering of fist bumps and random hi-fives. Four distinct happy dance occasions (or at least all you’ll ever know about!) =====è One woman.

One woman. Two perspectives regarding life’s path:

1) Go, go go!....Out…Beyond…Seek ...Reach…Search...the unknown. Revel in the independence and freedom offered by this amazing opportunity. Grow, Learn. Fear. Conquer. Overcome. Persist…..Become.

2) Stop, Stop, Stop! Be still…Look. Listen. Reflect. Recognize. Remember. Appreciate. Embrace…the known.

Two choices.

Ultimately, I choose both. Presently (tangibly) I choose “HOME” ~

I look around me and see such goodness. Blessing. Abundance…and I hear whispers of: enough.

[I have had] Enough [I have seen] Enough [ It is] Enough [I am]…

Bonjour~

For the past two months (and with two and a half months left to go), I have been on the trip of a lifetime…quite possibly the trip of several lifetimes. I have visited famous monuments, had my eyes opened by ancient places, and been humbled by the majesty of architectural and historical masterpieces.

Barcelona housed Gaudi’s creative genius, the bustling boardwalk of the Barcoloneta, Las Ramblas with its quirky talents and throng of tourists, and a breathtaking cathedral beyond compare. Istanbul offered the glory of the Hagia Sophia, the blessing of the sacred Blue Mosque, and the overwhelming sensory overload of the Grand Bazaar. Upon arrival to each city, I never wasted one moment before I was out the door in search of these awe-inspiring places that I had been hearing about (and dreaming of) since childhood. So, naturally I get to Paris and I follow the same pattern, right? Well, * not exactly *…

I have been in Paris a total of one full day thus far. One single day filled with what I call “little sweet nothings.” --Rambling walks with no particular destination in mind; Naked wrists with no schedule or agenda for which to "dress." Piping hot morning coffee cups, left to cool (in lieu of conversation and communion) to lukewarm liquids. Half-eaten pastries (the first portion being so sublimely satisfying, it rendered the second irrelevant). A "peasant's picnic" in the park –a simple feast consisting of fresh produce from the curb market and mouth-watering fromagerie brie spread on what could only be the closest thing to manna from heaven found on this side of the clouds…the French baguette. Morning runs, soaking up the stillness of a sleeping city. Nights on fire, lit with a glow that only shining, joyous people (not lanterns) can emit. Sidewalks littered with cafes, peppered with patrons watching passersby…every once in awhile you will hear a friendly “Bonjour” offered between neighbors, or catch a snippet of a shared smile among strangers. “Bonjour,” meaning literally “Good Day” in French…* and it was. *

Thankfulness in Every Language~

Temiz I come away from your presence cleansed; to you who have forged the path of purity, and graciously bid me walk alongside...*I thank you*~

Emin I rest in your presence without reserve; to you who have welcomed me into the peace and safety of your sanctuary...*I thank you*~

Sade I shed the weight that has long been a burden; to you who have shown me the freedom in simplicity…*I thank you*~

Eser I am rendered speechless, grasping for words as I stand before you; to you who are a creation beyond compare…*I thank you*~

Keyif I dance before you, mind untwisted; heart untied—a freestyle flow in which my body coincides; to you who have ushered me into this deliciously rowdy rejoicing of life… *I thank you*~

Kolay I remember vaguely my life before—cluttered and wracked with worry; to you who have simply swept the “stuff” aside…*I thank you*~

Uyanmak I spent my life sleeping to dream of tomorrows—hopes deferred in my todays; to you who have awakened me anew…*I thank you*~

Rahat I stepped into life with you like a pair of worn-in Levi 501’s; it was a perfect fit. To you who clothes me in comfort and grace…*I thank you*~

Evet I stopped doubting myself and began to believe. To you who exchanged my no of “reality” for the yes of possibility….*I thank you*~

Doymak I discovered the deceptive difference between “need” and “want”; the sweet recognition of satiety. To you who whispers softly, “It is enough”…*I thank you*~

Ekim I witnessed the blessed harvest; to you who planted and sowed with such love and patience; who toiled tirelessly over the barren wasteland that was myself…*I thank you*~

Renkli I re-painted my skies with the rainbow of promise; to you who brought color, igniting my world…*I thank you*~

Isik I emerged from the darkness, opening my eyes to seek; to you who were a source of light…*I thank you*~

Mutlukluk “I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart.” Quoting a poetess and embracing the words she breathed—I found happiness. To you who take delight in the truth: “I am, I am, I am”….*I thank you*~

TESEKKUR EDERIM, Turkey…I am a woman most grateful~