Saturday, August 11, 2018


I sit on the bus as it chugs down a street. The thumpety thumps are lulling at this nighttime setting, but my brain is "overwhelmed," which is the word I give it when emotions situate in my stomach and lurk there is spiral movements waiting to spawn out as colorful streamers constituting everything that I am in one full blow. I sit and peer across from me, at the other passengers. The only way to interpret the savage yearning in me at this time is to state to myself that I feel like I want a baby to hold in my arms, as if a small being toward which I'd pour my compassion would slow my thoughts and calm me down, set me apart from worrying about my output in the world.

I think about the beginning of the story I will write. It holds in it a rapture of all the emotions in that spinning swirl. The bus turns corners and rides toward the downtown bus station of Bellingham. I am overwhelmed and embarrassed by my messy appearance in the world (I want it to be organized; I want all the words I say to people to make perfect sense, but they inevitably don't), and I stretch out the word "embarrassed" in my head so that it is looong and twisty, and the sounds reach out to every negotiable being, pleading for serenity of the senses.

Each letter is like an arm, clinging on to a mother: "Please."


Yesterday, on my way home from someplace where a large number of people congregated for a special meal, I felt overwhelmed.
Overwhelmingness is an emotion I am well acquainted with.
This time I was overwhelmed because of some of the conversations I had. I get frustrated when I feel like I don't express myself in a perfect way, or when I feel awkward, because I feel awkward sometimes, or when I learn, like last night, that more people than I expected read my posts (read me) and enjoy them, and that's overwhelming in a whole other way, in the same way that discovering music I should've discovered ages ago makes me overwhelmed, or the same way that coming up with a brilliant idea makes me overwhelmed - and it can bug me for hours or days, chewing at my heart (it's like my mind can't properly regulate the emotions). So on the way home, walking up the hill, I made up a song for me to meditate on:

It's alright, 
You gave what you gave
You got what you got
No one expects you to be perfect
If you gave a smile, that's enough for today.

Tuesday, August 07, 2018


I wrote in a previous post (or maybe the post was only in my head) that letting my little world pass through the barrier from private to public makes me feel so vulnerable and ashamed. But it's shameful not only because I'm un-knowledgeable or scared I'll be seen as naive, but also because, at the core, I have this aching - albeit quiet - suspicion that it's fake, that all of my outward dispositions are fake, that my wistful hope and urging for peace and for unity and for compassion is just a safeguard, a shield, a "wait-wait-wait don't hurt me" kind of shield, just something to give me the space and time and love I need. (Well, in that case, it is still real. But this doesn't yet convince me.)

This is not to say that I do not believe in these things. They must be some part of me (inherent or not), and around them I create an ideology ("it's important to be compassionate," "we should work toward peace," etc.). When I am quiet and listen to myself, I hear truthful and authentic compassion toward the world (the narrator knows I really do want people to be caring, to be patient, to be kind, I want "enemies" to connect, and I have a firm belief that they can), and my actions in the world are of compassion and reflect this sense of myself that I hold so dearly and proudly. 

And yet still I feel like I must be faking something (especially when these things enter the realm of the public world. When they are in me, I am nourished by them, I am consoled and warmed and utterly inspired by them, but once I utter these ideas in public, I suddenly feel ashamed, fake, small, wrong). These traits of nonviolence and kindness are all-encompassing, and yet this doesn't make me believe they are the real ME, but just that it is perhaps a successful and well-rounded mask that makes sense for my earthly being. 

So I think about the level of being that I am imagining, underneath it all, that which I feel is the true essence. What is it? If it does not truly Love All, then what does it? 

It has no compassion, nor aggression. It is just the core; it is an entity that has no opinions. 

It seems to me that that very deep and fundamental level (the soul, consciousness) is the one I want to reveal when I am listening for truth beyond the visible one. (Not that I want that unbiased truth to become my life, but still it is interesting to be aware of its existence.)

There is another possible explanation for my sense of fakeness: When I was younger, I was not really listened to, and my opinions did not matter much. My inclination to love flowers and rainbows was not taken seriously. Love for such things was maybe even ridiculed - seen as "girly" and "stupid" (naive, not productive, too emotional). Why would a person think the whole world could be at peace?

(I have been close to the thought that maybe it's true; maybe there can be no peace. But no! Of course I didn't take that thought seriously, are you kidding? I will not succumb! I will not succumb to this hopelessness toward potential fruitful human connection and sacred individualism which can, without a doubt, make the world better.)

I'm reminded that the vision and inspiration I have now of a connection to the feminine entity of sacredness and nurturing in the world and in nature are not something I grew up with in an outwardly visible way. I don't actually know the source of their implantation in me. I may have been around in the sixties as a hippie, or as a flower, or as a chord from Joan Baez' guitar, or it is possible that my ancestors had this feminine-spiritual side in them and I just not aware of it. My PTSD and my ancestral soul both have arms in all sorts of places I don't see.

I am who I am.

Sunday, August 05, 2018


My book will be a place for sentiment, nostalgia, longing, pain and brokenness.
It will also be a place for growth, beauty, action and love.
That's the only thing I can't put in my book.
How can I turn music into words?

Photos from 2011-2013

Wednesday, August 01, 2018


I've been wanting to write about compassion, because the emotion has been encapsulating me, breezing through and around me, being an integral part of my understanding and accepting of the world. But I haven't yet, specifically because the vastness of it makes it hard to minimize into words. I am an emotional being and an empathic one. My eyes well up with tears from slight changes of wind in another person's demeanor, from authentic plights of children, from pain of myself and of others, from unintentional pain or fright I cause others. The raw openness of my heart and my desire to give everyone in the world a valid space for love, makes me feel ashamed (in a world where heartiness, sentiment and unconditional love are seen as naive), but also I feel that maybe there is something in this capacity that is worth sharing, worth spreading, despite my lack of knowledge, despite my lack of memory of factual information about the world around me. And that raw openness and empathy also make me detest violence (or came as a result of it), which I unfortunately see abundantly around me in the general world of adults (online and in real life), and make me want to try to give the world another perspective: A message of being kind and patient. Don't rush. Don't rush children. Lend them a hand - not a command. I am always learning so much about children through working with them and through working with myself who is an unhealed child, and I come face-to-face with those tears in my eyes so often, and I often want to just outright reach in and pull out my ecstatic and tear-stricken heart and spread it horizontally through the landscapes of humanism, and listen, help, encourage, and compensate for the lack of these crucial assets in the scale of the general world.