November 3, 2013

Make it yours

I get it. 

That desperation to cling onto something that looks like love and a life you envision. Even though you know deep down it's not exactly what your heart wants. You convince yourself that it is close enough and in front of you so you best take it. 

I get it. I've been there. 

It's more soothing than forging through deep dark rough waters of loneliness all with the hope of finding it for yourself. Navigating through the journey isn't for the faint of heart. And on really rough days, you wonder if you'd rather be found and saved, taken to land prematurely- before you find the shore on your own. The frustration of knowing that wouldn't be good enough. That you need to be the one to run into and find the shore on your own. You don't want to be saved. You want to be seen. You want to see it for yourself and know you're the one that intentionally navigated your way through. 

Oh, the immense wish to settle. To just not have to go through it alone. To be saved now versus the unknown of when you will find and be found. See the light in someone and allow your own light to be seen. Of accepting a life that's created for you in a template instead of creating your own way. 

Forge on. This firefly in my gut will guide the way. She always has. She's always been right. 

Forge on. 

The seas are vast. I know. I also know there is land that makes up this world. Trust that as vast and lonesome as the ocean may be, you do not live in a vacuum of ocean. There is land to be reached. Your feet will be planted firmly on soil again. What's the use of a journey; of an adventure without a destination to attain? You can't have one without the other.

I think we just take turns between being home and trying to find it. 

Rember that when you're about to give up. When you're about to settle into a land that's closer and not truly the land you dreamt of. 

 It's waiting for you to see it. To find it and be ready enough to go to it.
To be ready enough for you to be found. To be seen. 

Forge on. 

The swtich

You deserve to be happy.

I never really let that absorb inside of me until today.
Never understood it's real meaning; beyond just words, until today.

It hit me. 

I've always looked at happiness and doing what I wanted to really do that manifested deep happiness inside as a sort of laziness. Something that I could never do because it meant I was being unruly; rebellious; irresponsible. Because it made me happy, it wasn't serious enough to make a living. Taking vocal lessons in college and participating in the arts as a profession, that was laziness and irresponsibility in my house as a kid. If you're wildly happy, you're not working hard enough or taking life seriously enough. The translation? Success is sacrifice and misery. Yuck. That's gloomy shit. 

Happiness was for the weekends or for volleyball after school, or dance or guitar in my room, or vacations. That freedom of your insides laughing out loud was kept for allotted times that were socially acceptable to participate in activities that could only give you that emotion. A time and a place. Being deserving of any life came with hard work and sacrifice.

It's been work alright. Work to un-do that chain of thought (literally keeping you chained from living) and to have the courage to dip your toes in the ocean just because it felt good. To know that unruly and wild happiness and laughter and smiles have become necessary pars for the course in my life - regardless of what is going on or not going on. Anytime. Any place.

I've always had a trust in the truth that whatever comes to you effortlessly and beautifully, is your gift. It's what you actually sacrifice your heart least for and with reckless abandon exudes out of you, that life draws out of you to share. That's what gives you the highest form of happiness. 

Without judgement on what that thought is - You deserve to be Happy.  I am simply finally able to see the difference between words and living it. To swiftly welcome those words in when I worked so hard to not allow them to overcome me. To ask for it and know, that you not only need it, but that you're not really living if you don't have that unabashed, unruly, wildfire, ignition in your belly that says, 'yahoo!'. It IS your responsibility. 

Abundance in greatness is more than just ok, it's the highest form of living. It's being grateful out loud for your gifts. Humility and meekness only prepare you for being able to handle such responsibility of living in greatness. I've done my time in those worlds and now i'm ready. I know the difference so much so to appreciate the responsibility of being able to handle greatness.  I'm truly at a place where I have worked hard enough and felt the other empty side. I have put my head down to work hard enough to know you can't see possibility and potential beyond with your gaze to the ground.  I thought it was the only way to be. 

Allowing goodness and greatness into my life is necessary. It's a heartbeat. It's oxygen in your lungs that allow you to sigh in awe. 

It's knowing that the world would not be the same without you. Starving yourself of fun and lightheartedness, starves the world of your unfiltered and relentless joy. It needs what turns you on to feed what keeps the world going. It's all connected. You deprive yourself, you deprive us of you. We need your 'woot woot!'. Your yahoooooooo. Your spark.

Keep it going. Have fun. Be free. Make a life full of it. Be happy; no matter what they say. 

Oh, the carrot juice

I've been reading a lot and not doing much writing from the heart. Jumbled. Twisted words and I don't know what I'm trying to say. Too much trying to make its way through a small tube in a compressed amount of time. What it feels like. Too hurried and not enough mindfulness. 

I'm comparing. I'm feeling as though I should be somewhere - anywhere other than exactly where I am. I grow so tired of the same view and frankly, get stuck in not knowing how to change it. It's easy only in rhetoric - or just plain denial. Or the frustration is what keeps me stuck on those dauntingly crappy days.  

There's a sort of obsession and habit of drinking carrot juice in my house. My son loves it. It's his go to. Better than other sugary juices, I suppose and he's trained me well to have it in stock at the Blanco diner at all times. He's 3 1/2. I'm either a good obeyer disguised as an avoider of meltdowns, or he's a good drill sergeant or both. We take turns. At least the dysfunction is balanced, ok?

My son spilled a jar of said carrot juice. A jar? Yup. The southern in me, I suppose. An overpriced pre-made magic potion juice glass bottle that I kept and reuse. I have a few. I liked the unique shape. He loves it and it reminds me of home for whatever reason. Southerners drink out of objects not intended to be glassware; it stuck. I also try to live a sustainable lifestyle and reuse as much as I can, so there you go. Me in a nutshell. (I wish. Just go with it for now) 

He spilled the carrot juice in a hurry to follow me downstairs while i went to check the mail. He has this fear of me leaving him lately, which is another post; another worry for me. 

I ran to the spill in that 'I'm so frazzled, I can't believe the world is against me, what else could possibly happen to me' overblown and very honest frustration. I consoled him at the same time. I'm good at that. Talk about mixed signals. Mama's frustrated. I know it was an accident. My body language couldn't hold back as gracefully. Back and forth between the kitchen sink and the relatively new grey and white chevron rug. Slowly the stain would lift. Another trip. Another towel. I cursed and he repeated. 'Sh*t.' 

'Sh*t', he repeated. 

No sweets. Don't say that. I kept soaking up bright orange juice. Not what I had on the agenda. Not today. It was a day of fire drills. Of getting it solved as fast as you can and it's still not good enough's. Of crossing one off the list and five more appeared. Of not enoughs. Of what I do wasn't nearly a comparable measure next to what I need to be doing.
'Aw sh*t'. I was done. 

I crouched over the pastel orange hue and cried. I couldn't do it anymore. The bath water was running. So was the clock to get the stain out before the tub filled up. I'm a pro double tasker and I frankly hate that I put myself in those pressure cooker situations. All by myself.

 I can't keep it up anymore. The juggle is incredibly daunting. And you know, it's not just the juggling of so many topics and things to remember and things to schedule and do and keep up with what he needs and what I need. It's not so much to keep going with the packing a lunch or the school papers or the work emails and meetings and calls and bills and home keeping and groceries and activities and when am I going to work out this week (I was a regular) and how would anyone ever have the patience to participate in my world and the something's gotta give, and the no family this side of the country, and, and, and...

It's the what happens if I stop juggling? It'll all crumble. It'll fall apart. It's the marathoner worried their legs will give out. 

What if I give out? I can't ever give out. Ever. 

It was carrot juice. It was one more thing and I folded. 

We'll see if the rug matches tomorrow's sunrise. And I did catch the bath water just in time. And we had a lovely night of brushing teeth, lotion, combing hair, pj's, books, and cuddles as he fell asleep- my nightly prayer of gratitude. For him. For our life. For surviving and most days, thriving in it. 

Maybe in my own haste, in my own 'don't leave me' moment, I spill more energy than when I savor the moment and take my time. We all have tantrums. We need to. We all have those 'I can't do this alone', moments. I get how those little bodies and minds grow so fast and have so many meltdowns. It's a lot to absorb in one capsule. Give some away. Let it out. You can't tread lightly and cover ground with a heavy load. Put it down. Throw it. 
Curse. A lot. I do. (other than spontaneous one-liners - not in front of my child - my inner dialogue is rough) and alone in the car. I love it. I'm Puerto Rican. I need to get it out. Sweat it out. Be alive. 

And move on. So will the carrot juice stain. So will your anxiety. So will all the BS and what filters through is the clarity of what matters. 

The Gaze

It's brilliant. Stare long enough. I dare you to just stare until time stops ticking. Long enough that you can see every shadow and hear its thoughts by simply staring. You notice its uneven surface. Stunning. Stare long enough and it comes into focus. Everything does in a silent gaze. 

Stare long enough and it seems closer than you memorized it to be. Stare long enough and it becomes familiar and so much more magnificent. You scare yourself; wanting to break the gaze; it's too much. Almost too great to know what to do with. The thrill rushes in when you realize you're not the only one observing. Your admiration isn't in vein. Humility, validation, significance comes over you. You too are seen. You were staring as a spectator and suddenly realize that you are the one being admired. 


You are standing there unable to hide. To distract. To blink. To find a quick pretense to break the moment. It's too late. You don't want to. 

You've been seen. Completely exposed for your own mystery.  Seen. An equally magical exchange. 

You've been so used to only admiring and wishing from a distance. Don't get too close. You labeled it as ordinary to dispel its power. How can it be you have allowed yourself to be completely unseen for this long? You didn't even realize how good you have become at brushing magic aside until this moment. You had forgotten the freedom and lightness of it. The magic that there's something greater than you at play? To take the time. To believe in it again. It's been there all along.

I wished on the moon for the first time tonight in what's been years. Lifetimes as it seemed. And I realized that it's been shining brilliantly over me during my darkest nights. During the most mundane and simple and unexpected nights. There when I was blindly navigating through. Gently watching. Allowing me to go through it. I didn't have to be extraordinary for the light to be. 

For the first time in years I stared. I really studied its magnificence. I let it see me. I admired its grandeur and in that, found my own. I thanked it through my stare.  Realizing it's seen everything. It's fully aware of my flaws. My unevenness and ever changing light and shadow. It knows how sometimes I'm there to get the task done and don't show myself truly; at least not in ways where I shine the brightest. It recognizes my paralyzing fears and acknowledges my practice to overcome. 

And it glows even still.

Isn't that what a great gaze does? The allowing ourselves to be seen and to see another? A recognition of our greatness, our magic, our seemingly mundaneness, our connection, our inner dialogues free of sound, our 'this is me without having to explain', our wishes, our fears, our wants, our hopes, our please's and could be's and if only's...