Shameless birthday plug

It’s not typical of me to think much about birthdays these days. Even before my 20’s, I sort of flat-lined at the “age is just a number” age. 21 was no special mile marker and I never felt my “age” in any of the other years either. And then, something came over me about year 25. I didn’t do anything particularly special to celebrate (except to carry on the PNW tradition of seeing Dusty) but I knew that the year to come was going to be one of some sort of significant growth and transition into a new level of “adulthood”. 

Of course, these revelations always seem more dramatic in the incubation period where you have the giant playground of the mind to imagine all the ways these themes are going to manifest. I certainly had the feeling that I would feel more “secure in adulting” or more “independant” than I do. But in looking back over the years, I realize my inkling wasn’t wrong. While the journey is far from over, I began/have begun exploring many vast new territories. I am facing insurance changes, I am having to start looking at budget and income in a different way, I am deciphering my passions with broader visions in mind, and the world has taken me by surprise by bringing a most incredible person in my life who has been a source of motivation for growth, support for setbacks and all in all, made the year one i will never forget. 

And now, another birthday approaches. Besides going off my parent’s health insurance in 11 days, this year seems to be another that is carrying very charged energy. With all the changes and challenges that have been overwhelming me lately, I’ve suddenly, for the first time in a long time, really felt young. I don’t mean young in the spry, rebellious, bullet-proof type of youth. But I mean that I really see the vastness of the space before me. It is a small piece of solace amidst all of the things that carry pressure. Perhaps part of this sensation is coming from my work with the elderly. I am really absorbing how much time there are in those years, where so much can happen and it takes so much time to figure out. It helps me feel a little bit better about struggling financially or floundering in my sense of direction. I don’t feel the same self-placed sense of expectation that I used to bring into my life. I’m cutting myself some slack out of necessity. 

Americans are great at empty celebrations. We’re like the wedding crashers of holidays. St. Patties? Yeah, my friends’ step-dads’ great-grandmother was Irish! Now let’s party! The power and significance of ceremony is lost on us. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/11/11/history-of-birthdays_n_4227366.html is an interesting collection of factoids about the origin of the birthday. I see “God” and “godliness” as those qualities within ourselves that bring us closest to being the most authentic and beneficial version of ourselves. Many of these qualities end up being universal, supported and enhanced through our interconnected nature. In essence, we are all “god” or  “spirit” or “soul” or “whatever you want to call it”. I typically don’t like to use terminology like this, because language tends to dissuade from true understanding in this context, so forgive the visceral cringe that I know its giving me, and possibly you as well. 

Anyhow, in this regard, it’s neat to see the evolution of birthdays, from a coveted royal event to a commonplace acknowledgement among all people. In this light, I see my birthday as an opportunity to both honor those qualities within myself as well as allow for honest reflection of where I can grow. We involved others in this celebration, both because they are able to honor spaces we may be blind to, as well as contribute insight in places where we don’t notice that we could do more growth. And it’s also just nice to feel loved, cause our best selves operate under those conditions. 

This was a lot more long-winded than I thought it would be, so hopefully you stuck with me! All to say, what do I hope for on my birthday? 

I do not want things. I DO NOT WANT FACEBOOK POSTS. What I would like: 

-A message, snail-mail or phone call offering a piece of insight/wisdom as to an aspect of my character that you think has room for growth.

-A message, snail-mail or phone call recognizing a gift that you feel is strong with me, that I should focus more intention on, that has a lot of potential.

-An experience. Preferably a surprise. A moment, an situation that excites, energizes, encourages a look through new eyes, revitalizes a stale outlook on life. Novelty and adventure inspires, reawakens. 

-If giving something really is simpler/more in line with what you are called to do, please consider this: I have a lot of practical needs that I am struggling to meet right now: A class to pay for, a license plate to get etc. The next tier down, I have a yoga membership to pay for and a hope to acquire backpacking gear. Finally, I’d like to start a savings for a bus. 

Any of these things are direct contributions to inner practical and/or growth, not some clutter filling my life. 

Thank you all for being a part of my life, being a part of my growth and being a part of the journey. 

<3

Melissa

Treading Water

I try to keep a balance of perspective in my life that is both attentive to the more intuitive and subtle signs of situations, but that does not react to every little mishap or good fortune as being the token prophecy for one direction or another. In practice however, it’s typically in small, mundane ways that I find this, such as a slight misfortune in the day that changes the direction of plans. Otherwise, my failure occurs in the theoretical stage. My approach to planning has typically been to put my feelers out in a zillion ways and see what comes back feeling like the right fit. If option “A” to some big decision doesn’t feel right, I usually get the memo and end up on a different path.

I’ve been fortunate to have this approach work out for me this long. Yet while some would say this takes a certain kind of fearlessness and wisdom, there are underlying themes that I find in these patterns which make me wonder if I really am more fearful than ever. Up until now, every different phase or journey has had some neat little boxed time frame. both this and the way I just let opportunities unfold for me lend themselves to a certain sort of passivity.I’ve noticed this for a while and stubbornly joked with the world that I would never have to address it. But with AmeriCorps behind me there are no more superficial mile markers. This is officially a blank slate timeline. Now I have to be a more assertive designer. 

Fear, Failure and Forgiveness; three words that hold much more weight and power than the trademark f-word we prefer to brandish. I would say that each of these are essential to ultimately accessing authentic meaning in life. These are the cornerstones from which those recurring themes are built, and they will keep recurring with greater force, as the world beacons you to face life directly. 

Since moving to Portland, there have been small curveballs left and right. Like I said, I try not to react with unfounded assumptions, but at the same time, I can track the general vibes being created by my experience thus far, and I feel a greater and greater sense of urgency, that I have found myself in a failed decision. 

The daily demands of being in a city have been eating up my energy, leaving far from any sort of reserves to wrap my head around extra pursuits and interests. When it became apparent that I was not going to make enough of an income at the Senior Care job, all my time began to focus on finding more work. Now that I have, I am coming out of that tunnel vision to discover a reflection of someone far removed from who I feel I am. 

I crave the woods and the water. I crave that space removed from time, where the only thing to keep pace with is the synchronicity of surroundings, and the hearts of others. I don’t even need something big right now - just a week or two in that land of possibility - but I’ve created a schedule that doesn’t accommodate that need. I’m living to work and not working to live. 

Yesterday, we had some of the most gorgeous, warmest weather we’ve had in a couple weeks, and probably one of the nicest days we will have for a while as we move into winter. And I was missing out on it for the sake of work. If my heart yearns for those spaces so much, my work should be able to incorporate that. 

And yet this is where my big bold acknowledgment of change becomes muddled. Because even as I express my dissatisfaction, I see it as just a perspective’s shift away from being an unnecessary impatience with a path that could offer just as many benefits to me as any other and still eventually evolve to be integrated more with what i need. 

And perspecitve shifts a lot. For as much as I get disgruntled with my job, I love the people I work with and the small moments I feel I have something to contribute to authentically.

I had one of these moments during my afternoon shift yesterday. It was my high-anxiety, OCD client and I’d just about finished all of the day’s tasks. She had asked if I wanted to trim back the flowers in the flower pot, making an off-the-cuff remark about how she could “back when I used to have a life” or “I should say, when I wasn’t disabled.” I paused, once again coming up against my radical belief that she can change and the structure of the agency’s aim to please her and maintain her comfort. Delicately, I asked her if she thought about it much: what it would be like to try and go out these days? I didn’t get an incredibly detailed response, but she did jump to her primary concern about her sense of balance. Then to my surprise, she offered that we could go out and try and tackle the flowers together. Perhaps too excitedly, I gathered scissors and bags and we went down together. She said that she would need help balancing while sitting in her folding chair and to move it from pot to pot, but as she got involved with the activity, I found her more and more able to move without hesitation. 

Back upstairs, she asked for a hug, and then asked if I’d ever known anyone with her symptoms. I shook my head, but then carried on to explain how I could kind of relate. In the past, I’d experienced anxious, sensory overload that effects the perception of hearing and vision. I understood how that can be uncomfortable and how easily it could become a vicious cycle that someone feeds until they are trapped in those sensitivities. In the most polite way I could, I basically told her she needed to buck up. Granted, it was really polite, because I’m all about meeting people where they’re at. But it was exciting to begin that conversation that I’d been wanting to have with her from day one. I told her that I would be thrilled to do more like that with her, as much as she is able and willing. As she described her experience, I saw how much the current pattern of the caregiver routine fueled her anxiety and stole away any chance of learning how to live for passions again, and I explained that that was not why I was there. In  the back of my mind, I imagine us at a park by the time I’m done working with her. 

Then later that night, I had my first overnight shift. The hour before, I began to get nervous. What the hell was I doing? I’m not an all-nighter person, I haven’t worked with brain injury, and now I’m freaking out about the steps to basic standing and walking assistance. 

My client was a young, cognizant 67 year-old woman who had taken an incredibly nasty fall down the stairs. While the rest of her body was practically unscathed, her head sustained two skull fractures, a broken nose, broken eye sockets and brain rattling. Her husband greeted Allison and I and then took me into the bedroom to quietly say hello. As he calmly explained the night’s routine - she likes to take baths at night, and she needs to take this vicodin at 2 - I tried to imagine how he’d been experiencing this great upheaval. After the run-down, he set me up with wi-fi, stoked the wood stove and insisted I help myself to the tons of pie that was leftover. 

About an hour into my shift, my client rang her bell for assistance. At that point, all my preconceived worries were irrelevant. She asked what time it was and I could immediately tell she was in pain and wanting the vicodin. I brought in an Aleve and suggested that we could maybe try a bath. As she moaned at how painful it was, she still attempted conversation and explanation of herself here and there, so I began to find questions to understand more about what she needed and what she was feeling. I asked if this was worse than it had been the past few days and her answer let me know that she was unsettled by having thought she was in a steady decrease from pain when it now appeared there was more of a roller coaster to go. In the darkened bathroom, in the late night, the space unfolded into a bonding and I found that I wasn’t grasping for how to behave or what to say. Back in bed, the pain continued to torment her. Without second thought, I offered to message right around the trauma area. For the next hour I sat there, just embodying this simple, compassionate touch with this woman as she immediately calmed. We eased into conversation and then I finally turned out the lights so that she could try to close her eyes. We surprise ourselves with how far compassion and recognizing one another’s human-ness surpasses any skill. 

She had told me I had incredibly gentle hands. She had asked if I’d ever thought of being a therapist. She had seen me and understood me, and I had brought my authenticity to the moment. 

She’d also very quickly decided that I was not being treated or paid my worth with Home Instead. This too, has been a factor I’ve felt intuitively as I waver at the many forks in the road. I knew I was disappointed with the scheduling and lack of benefits but I did not realize how sorely ripped off we are. Her and her husband are paying a whopping $25 per hour for me to be there. I’m seeing less than half of that. 

Between these moments though, and the opportunities I’ve had to discover things like PDX Food Not Bombs and drum circles, I can’t quite see any one path clearly. Sometimes, it’s necessary to get through a less ideal set of circumstances to build towards something more fulfilling. Sometimes it’s a trap and it’s only purpose is to be the thing that forces you into fearful, unknown places upon abandoning it. I just don’t know which this is yet. 

Thoughts beyond Paris.

Finally, words. 

When I first caught wind of the atrocities taking place in Paris, I was - for all intents and purposes - a dumbfounded, useless stare. In recent years, I’ve maintained a fair amount of distance from detailed accounts of world events. Not because I don’t care, but because my empathic character renders me quite useless (i.e detrimental to any positive social impact) when I’m faced with the degree of overwhelming odds that these events present these days. 

I will take full responsibility for my ignorance and social conditioning as I admit that it was these attacks that pulled at my panic strings with an intensity that had not been felt thus far, in the midst of all the violence taking place across our globe. Perhaps it was because it was Paris, the romanticized honeymoon destination, where couples daintily dine on croissants and other glutenous carbs without gaining weight. Perhaps it was due to that visit to Quebec when I was 17, and the french displayed a culture I could relate to. Perhaps it was because my French stereotype is white, and I am also. Whatever the reason, or blend of reasons, I was struck in a way that differentiated from the numbness.

But initially, the blow knocked me into Paralysis. Of course, I’d been well-enough informed on the conditions in Syria, the past years’ uprisings in Egypt, and our years of occupation in Iraq/Afghanistan to feel the generally dire tones of our political and global climate. However, this knocked me into another level of helplessness. Again, I claim and own my human flaw; we feel most strongly about what we are most able to identify with. 

So, that was my split-second, knee-jerk reaction. What I did not do, was react. Emotional desires aside, I’ve also been quite busy with immediate personal tasks the last couple of days, so I don’t know where that time would have presented itself. Nevertheless, had I had the time, I still think I would have refrained at least this long. 

In the hours that followed, I heard about all of the topics of controversy popping up: who should go to war with who, whether or not refugees should be turned away, who knew what before the events took place and how it could of could not have been prevented. the media of course, became awash with threads and commentary. I had no desire to be another voice in the fray, exuding frantic, fearful, impulsive, ego-centric, defensive, idealistic (etc) energy. 

Of course, as an individual drawn towards words as primary way of expressing my experience of this life and universe, I knew I would eventually succumb to participation in such a wide-spread forum. It was not until today, that I finally began to explore further into the conversations that have developed, and to really determine where I feel that I could contribute a voice from a place of compassion, that does not inadvertently add to the argumentative nature filling the soundwaves. 

I am not interested in discussing war. I hear that’s a possibility. Maybe it will be “nobly” named the “war on terror II” or whatever. Not interested. 110% against pitting violence with more violence. The more nuanced subject of refugee immigration is what claws at my throat and my fingertips. 

To welcome foreigners or to barricade, that is the question. 

When I was a teen, probably years before I should have been, I took to gallivanting around town at all hours of the night. First, of course, my parents would try to punish with grounding. That never seemed to pan out to any success, and when I was very apparently beyond controlling, my parents still offered their sound opinion: It’s dangerous out there. I don’t like you walking alone. I would always retort along the lines: “It’s dangerous everywhere. Anything could happen to me, at any time.” 

Sure, we all have certain precautionary measures that we take to “ensure” our safety. But safety is never ensured. Shortly after hearing the news, Leo and I were talking and he shared that one of the most immediately relevant points of view he’d read was talking about how Paris just passed rigorous surveillance laws and how those did not stop the people they were aimed at stopping. 

Fear is only an effective weapon against ourselves. 

Living from a place of fear not only creates ineffective “solutions”, but it perpetuates the very negativity and environment of hostility that are the breeding grounds of the terrors we so claim to protest. 

A particularly heated thread developed on Leo’s news feed, by which reading was the partial inspiration for expediting my thoughts. Leo had shared a very thoughtful and personal anecdote about his familial experience with immigration, as the son of Cold-War era, Cuban refugees. 

I am the son of immigrants. My parents and grandparents fled communist Cuba at the height of the Cold War.

I am alive, because America let my blood onto its soil. It is here that my parents met. It is here I was born.

America was a different place then. The spooks we feared were the Russians. It was the Red Scare, McCarthyism, the age of Mutual Assured Destruction.

When Castro opened his prisons and the Mariel Boat Lift sent the dregs of Cuban prisons to our shores, should we have been turned away then? Should we have closed the doors to those political refugees for fear of how many Soviet sympathizers or Communist moles might have entered the country?

The world has never been free of religious or political war. There have always been ideological threats. If your blood comes from a distant shore, at some point it too was a risk and a threat. At some point, we were also a burden.

I dare you to tell me WHY your family and my family were better or deserved more. I dare you to tell me what greater threat these people today pose that we did not. Tell me why it was ok when it was us on these shores and why its not ok when its someone else's family and blood.

In a response, it was mentioned that he would of course, have a biased view that was more forgiving towards refugees because of his family’s history and that, had he been from a family who, say, suffered loss at the hands of an immigrant, his opinion would undoubtedly be different. This particular argument however, is aimed at justifying the option of closing our borders to refugees. Now, while I have no immediate reference to either side, and I am sure that emotions run heavy on both, I have anecdotal references that support selfless, fearless forgiveness and trust as a viable option. Relatively local example: Tony Wheat is Seattle’s longest incarcerated inmate. Wheat was convicted of murder in 1965. Thirty years later, the mother of the man he killed requested to sit down and meet him. To forgive him. This may seem like a relatively trivial example, but I see it as a macrocosm of larger decisions we are faced with every day. 

“Do I choose to stand up and relate to my life directly, or do I choose to live and die in fear?” 

We assume that we are more safe walking home in the daytime than in the middle of the night. We believe that by locking our doors, we are out of harm’s way. The other day, in the middle of a very busy and affluent part of downtown Portland, my car window was shattered, my backpack stolen. Again, trivial example. Again, macrocosm of a greater pattern. 

As much as I hate it, terror happens. Terror happens regardless of the time of day or the barriers built. 

I still park my car downtown. 

Terror can issue its advances on land, property and body. But I will not let it issue its advances on my soul. The most beautiful and healing aspects of the human experience are found in our capacity for compassion and selflessness. To let fear take the reigns and diminish these capacities is to let terror truly win. 

I do feel fear. Great fear. I fear for the livelihood of my generation. I fear whether or not there will even be a generation after ours. However, I refuse to let this fear take the most valuable “thing” I have control over: my ability to love. 

Also, if we really want to split hairs about where the majority of my fear is coming from, it is not from the wars or the genocides that I experience in the visceral realm of the media. It is not from any single foreign act or threat. It is from the pervading, toxic disposition that we default to, that has continued to perpetuate this vicious cycle of violence. I am more fearful of the erratic behavior of my own government than of any potential risk of immigrants on our soil. After all, as my friend Dean pointed out “we know well what we ourselves are capable of and did to the American Indians”. All humanity has exhibited great power to do harm. The only greater power is our power to open up in the midst of that harm.

I am not interested in starting another verbal banter. I’ve read a few, and they were more than plenty. Loved ones are turning hatred towards one another as we make arguments based off of blanket assumptions. In time where we need more love than ever, we are slaughtering it, a heartbeat a minute. All that these arguments do are posit stats, extrapolate facts and exploit others’ stories for the sake of our point. When it comes down to it, we can never argue what needs to be felt. You get impatient with an elderly person until, in your own old age, you begin to lose abilities. You make ill-informed opinions about a gay person until you find out that your highly successful, most favored child is gay. You clump refugees into stereotypes until you are next to a cold child in tattered clothes, asking why she can no longer sleep in her home. 

Question your assumptions, combat your fear and wield your compassion. 

I love you all. 

So, you wanna be a city kid?

Big-City Living Checklist

• Spend lavishly on eccentric restaurants
• Quickly realize you can’t afford to do that…but keep trying to anyway
• the growing feeling of wanting to undergo a massive upheaval of all material and monetary possessions 
• However, still scrambling to find and hold multiple jobs, so as not to feel broke
• Fill every inch of free time with all of the events/classes/workshops/sights you can muster
• Simultaneously crave just one minute of peaceful, quiet wilderness
• Curse your fellow human beings at least once a day in the midst of bumper-to-bumper traffic
• Collect anecdotal momentos of exhilarating social snippets with your fellow human beings - meaningful smiles, small courtesies, discoveries of shared interests - which make you feel like you can actually find friends and connections as you navigate this new place
• Collect anecdotal momentos of social eccentricities that you can use later to bond over the absurdity of your fellow human beings and this giant zoo that you find yourself in 
• Feign creative productivity in a hipster coffee shop on a regular basis
• Discover that you have a steep learning curve in regards to your naive trust
• common Big-City situations in this educational lesson: 
• being harassed on the street
• vandalism of private property
• Theft and break-ins

I am making great progress. And last night, I got to cross off number 11. Thank you, to the stranger who shattered my car window and made off with my backpack. 

My emotions roller-coastered, while my expression and poise remained in some paralyzed equilibrium. I’d been on my way to meet Leo and Champagne for the evening, and when I found that I could not leave my car unattended in the middle of Downtown Portland, I called them to follow me back to the house so I could drop it off. While I waited for them to arrive, my body breathed long and heavy, while my mind just sort of drifted in a pool. First, I was just confused. I’d had my computer sitting completely out in the open on the back seat, my iPod between the two front seats, my winter coat, my tent, all easily accessible. And so, while I lamented the loss of some favorite clothing items, the good fortune of all things considered was not lost on me. I was doubly thankful to have the support and immediate assistance from nearby friends. But amongst the silver linings, I felt the battering of life’s demanding gavel beat down once again. Sentences out of my control, punishment it felt, for just trying to navigate and survive. Continued failure at this thing called adulthood. Leo reminded me that it is of course, not my fault that this shitty thing occurred - one should obviously be able to expect that a locked car is safe on a public street - but its the cumulative effect that these things have on me. I’ve been recently dealing with the inability to pay for any large bills/expenses, outstanding health care bills from some other time, unsuspecting roadblocks to obtaining a driver’s license here, and now another car problem (which seems I’m due to have at least once a month). And who knows, if I were one to take more preventative measures like hiding my valuables out of sight or making less of a point to give my car an incongruous appearance, maybe I’d still have four windows and a backpack. In my symbolic outlook on life, I tend to surmise that this sequence of events build a pattern indicative of some greater direction needing re-evaluation. Its a rather melodramatic outlook, but it’s hard not to ignore when I feel out my paths so intuitively. It’s hard to remember that even on the right path, things can still go out of whack. 

And finally, in that pool of thought, I landed on my reflection. In it was not the energy of anger or locks or fear. There was not the need to build up walls or hide away. 

It is in these situations in life, that we take pause to acknowledge who we are. Are we the ones that allow actions of malice to fester our own anger and spite? Are we the ones to allow it to corner us into boxes and build walls of fear and distrust? Or are we the ones to breathe through it all, and recognize that this one moment of misfortune does not have to change the million moments of beauty and bounty that life has presented to us, that has allowed us to cultivate trust, openness and understanding to begin with? 

It is one thing to learn from our mistakes, and to correct what we can to prevent further hardship from the same things in the future. But perhaps the greatest mistake we make, is to think that we are at fault when we run into one we can’t control, because we’ve become so hardened to that trope of correction, that expectation that we must fix and find ways to avoid hardship. We see these as mistakes, and yet can’t really pinpoint any action of control, because they are things that life throws at us despite our best self. The only mistake in this instance, would be to allow these moments to compromise our best selves. 

So, I am still here. Trusting, open, and trying to be understanding about the whole ordeal: I guess someone desperately needed a backpack, and I hope that they get worthwhile use out of it. 

One month in

Halloween. 

The city is surely arousing the inner Lokis, super stars,super heroes and otherwise uninhibited alter egos. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks casually recognizing all the possibility for frolic and debachery that is at my fingertips. However, I’d instead, become intent on running - into the chilly, grey, rain -  towards the water and the trees. Camping I thought, might be in my car if its pouring too hard to set up a tent, but I did not want to be in this city and there seemed no better time to acknowledge that than a holiday, when cities are the mecca of activity. 

I’d intended to stick out the daytime, joining Daniel and Alaina in a kid-friendly venture to the Kennedy School McMennamins. We arrived for a second airing of a live radio broadcast which told the story of a cursed mummy. As the show wrapped up, families began to arrive with what felt like the entire Portland population of lil’ tykes in tow. For the next half hour, we shuffled through the packed hallways where employees stood stationed to hand out candy around every corner. As Alaina dipped in and out to hit every sugar opportunity, I ogled the array of adorable costumes. Favorites? Totoro, the Brach’s Strawberry, Olaf, and the individual that decided to put a spin on this year’s influx of Star Wars characters and waddle through in a giant inflatable Jabba the Hut suit. 

With the kid-fix done, it was time to escape.

Then, the weather laughed in my face. 

I was stubbornly plowing ahead, even considering a drive as far as Packwood, when flood warnings began to arise. I put subtle feelers out for second opinions, knowing that in my reactionary state, I could very well end up choosing the irresponsible option if left to my own devices. I was ultimately talked down from leaving the city, let alone trying to camp.

I generally consider myself a rather flexible person. However, when I’m living in a high-stress state, I tend to fall into a fallacy of hardwired tunnel-vision. Once I’m in this mindset, I quickly develop blindspots to other options. I get set on the outcome I want and in this case, I wanted out. When the desired outcome doesn’t unfold, the host of ugly symptoms include: indecisiveness, figuratively implied neck-wringing of those nearby who try and have polite conversation, sensory paralysis, and not giving any fucks, flying or otherwise. 

My poor housemate was privy to my growing irritability, and although I generally possess enough tact to be polite with unfamiliars, the fact that we live together and that he has very parental qualities seemed to exhaust that buffer. 

Fortunately, despite my mindless behavior, I’ve at least grown more consciensious of when it happens and why. I mustered up enough awareness to accept my state of malcontent and explain the origins and process of my mental imperfections. As it goes, opening up this way allowed me to move through the negativity and release into accepting the reality of the moment. 

We moved on to let a mellow evening unfold. Daniel made a rockin’ dinner while I kept Alaina busy with art projects in between her serious job of passing out candy. Afterwards, her and Daniel braved the rain to walk the block, and I went out to meet a friend for a few ciders. Yet again, I’d found a temporary way to make sense of this discombobulated time in my life. 

The starving artist trend has continued in an exponentially negative fashion, sans the art. Before I keep whining, I will clarify that I am not feeling hopeless or resentful of the move as a whole. Right now, I’m simply confused as to what it all amounts to. My job with senior care, while I’ve come to enjoy the clients, has not proven to be near lucrative enough. My poor nonexistent budgeting skills have led to frivolous spending combined with sporadically placed stinginess in an attempt to compensate. Flights of fancy in my personal growth have continued to be dabbled with at best.

I’m still mindful enough to know that this is all a matter of perspective. Upon moving, I’d identified ways in which I felt it aided my growth, opportunities it gave rise to, and challenges that it would allow me to confront. All of those intentions are still present, somewhere under the overwhelming daily demands as I try and find a rhythm. 

Part of the problem is that I’m not all in. Packwood was a place where I could completely immerse myself and surrender to my position: There. Now. But here in Portland, I constantly have one foot on the gas and my imagination flitting through distant countries, or even nearby states. I dream of what life is like on the road and I wonder how many more times I have to try this scramble to find a steady income or a salary or a career life before I realize it’s not for me. I keep coming back to the same callings and visions of what my life could be like. And yet I keep challenging myself to fit this other sort of mold. 

I think that I will feel better once I find a second job. I’m vying for two amazing coffee shop positions right now, and I’ve got a shoe in the door at the newest downtown cider house…except that they are so new, that they don’t have enough business to hire anyone yet. The waiting is nerve-wracking and in the meantime, every pleasure is tinged with guilt. 

But I won’t deny that I’ve enjoyed some of the immediate investments I made upon moving. When I was a tourist to town last year, I discovered the ‘Yoyo Yogi’ yoga studio and promptly went back to get a membership. Their classes are versatile, soul-inspiring and body-working. I also got possessed to sign up for African Dance, which, while I’m a discoordinated disaster, has still been a neat experience.  Plenty of other groups and gatherings have caught my fancy, and it is only a matter of time before I delve into these communities. 

Today is the beginning of a new month. I’ve always felt that November is sort of this last stop for respite and recuperation before the winter months sweep everyone into a frenzy. I’m not inclined to make any verbose declarations of how I would like this month to go - I am more attracted to silence than to words right now - but if I am to set one intention this morning, it is to welcome a more graceful attentiveness back into my life this month.