musings as the days shorten

The penultimate month of 2011 is almost at an end. This is the time of year where I wonder where the time went. Yes, it's also the time of year when I think about family, thankfulness and all of the other holiday season things. But right now, I seem to be thinking about what I set out to do this year. I started 2011 with an influx of energy and ideas. I had projects for my non-work time. Travel plans abounded. I felt good about where I was and what I was doing. As I assess, I think things came out at a 50/50 split.

my windowsill on a Sunday afternoone

I did well on follow through with the travel plans. I went to Vegas to celebrate/reconnect with three amazing friends from college who I rarely ever see anymore since I moved to SF. I went to NYC for the first time and had an amazing time with Martin, my aunt Michelle and uncle David. We spent 5 summer days in Michigan with Martin's family and got some quality time hanging out with his oldest niece. There was the stormy Valentine's night off the pacific coast at Costanoa. And my first camping trip ever. Most recently my Thanksgiving trip with my family to Oklahoma City. So, I did well in that respect.

sticker graffiti on 13th near Valencia

My projects haven't come off so well. This blog was one project, and while it has been successful in some ways, it's hasn't been what I imagined. I finished knitting a hat for my dad. But everything else - building a lamp for Arielle, making a cookbook for my sister, making in inappropriate cross stitch for my brother, writing letters to Resa every month - did not happen. Some got started, but none got finished. Perhaps my eyes were too large for my stomach in this instance. But since all of these projects that were supposed to take up my free time didn't happen, what did I do with that time?

old sign in chinatown, SF

Finally, how do I feel about where I am and what I'm doing? Unsure is the best answer I can give. I don't feel content in my work anymore. I feel restless. I'm dreaming more. I'm reading more. I'm imagining more. I don't have any answers, but rather multitudes of questions. Perhaps as I go through the rituals of closing the year over this next month, I'll begin to feel some resolution and some consensus about this year. Then again, perhaps the process that I'm going through will take a little longer to suss out. We'll have to see.

the nature of habits and myself

Earlier in October, I signed up for an online course that was committing to do a yoga practice at home for 30 days. The commitment would be supported through video and email support by the yoga teacher. After the course, theoretically, one has gotten into a habit of daily yoga.

While I have enjoyed the course and practicing yoga at home, I have not been able to manage to make it a habit. In fact, I believe I have an unusual predilection for not forming habits out of daily practices. I'm not saying that I don't have things that I do regularly - showering, checking email, etc. Or that I don't respond to certain stimuli in certain, patterned ways - over-eating when upset, tearing at my nails when nervous, etc. Those ideas aren't what I mean when I say habit. I mean willfully and purposefully putting in place behaviors that become so ingrained that eventually they become almost subconscious. Things like daily yoga/exercise, filling my bike tires weekly, regularly writing on a blog. I have great ambitions and seem to have rather poor follow through.

For example, all of my journals before my 17th birthday look like this - one week of daily writing, an entry two weeks later that tries to catch up and fails, one more aborted attempt to catch up, the rest is blank pages. This was my habit. By the time I was 17, even I had recognized this pattern in myself. So, when I received a beautiful journal from a friend for my birthday, I was reticent to do anything with it. I didn't want it to end up like all the others. I thought about it for a while and wondered what would happen if I didn't date my entries? What if I just wrote what I wanted and then put it aside? And then, it wouldn't matter if I picked it up the next day or in two weeks or in two months or two years. It would look like I was just starting from where I left off. I started the journal in January of 2000 and finished it, my only complete journal to date, around 6 years later. I started my current journal in January of 2006 and am not nearly halfway done.

What does this example say about me? And, can I translate it into something useful in my other goals for myself? How do go about setting up a habit without holding myself accountable to time? I guess I can't really say that I made journaling a habit. I did the opposite. I removed the element of regularity. It worked for what I wanted - to finish a journal - but it didn't make journaling a consistent part of my life. How can I remove my self-sabotaging expectations of myself while still holding myself accountable? Maybe I'll go contemplate it while in downward dog.

the outdoors

My first backcountry backpacking/camping trip, ever, happened this Labor Day weekend. While I was a girl scout for many years growing up, we never actually went camping. I had never carried a pack, set up a tent, or done a dozen things that I did this weekend. 

Conversely, Martin was a boy scout. He went camping at least twice a year. One might say that this was an instance of him growing up in a rural area, while I grew up in a suburban area, but I don't think that's particularly accurate. I'm pretty sure boy scouts who lived in Roswell, GA went camping. I'm alos pretty sure that other girls who may or may not have been girl scouts but lived in Roswell, GA went camping growing up. 

Instead, I would say that camping was just not part of my family's lifestyle. My father and brother didn't go camping without us women-folk; they just didn't go camping. My parents never owned a tent. Our sleeping bags were the Rainbow Brite and My Little Pony style ones, not the keep you warm in under 30 degree weather kind.

And I think that my total and complete lack of camping and backpacking experience in the 80's and 90's actually may have been a good thing. You see camping gear used to be a lot heavier. A lot. And I was a tiny, tiny little thing growing up. While I loved the outdoors, I don't know that I would have loved hiking with a big external frame pack.

Now, they have ultra light tents and sleeping bags/pads that scrunch up into little bundles. Now, I have friends who have so much backpacking experience that they can lend us 95% of the gear we need to go. I think the only thing we actually had to buy was a pack for me because, as I mentioned, I'm kind of small. The best fit for me was actually a youth pack, not a women's pack.

I wonder if my parents went camping as children. I wonder if my brother and sister have been camping. I must say that I never perceived it as a lack growing up. But, I'm glad that, as an adult, I have had this experience. Sadly, it has made my non-consumerist goals much more difficult, because now I want to be able to do this on our own.

Getting out of the city. The silence of the evenings. The clean air. The easy tiredness in the evenings knowing that you have earned your rest. The sparkling fresh water of the mountain lake that we swam in. All of these things must be experienced again.

marking time

a windy afternoon shot along Mission Creek

Last day of work this month. Third dance performance of this weekend. Second night riding home after dark this week. First chance to hang out with a friend and former co-worker this year.

Boarding time

Martin's hazel eye

As I bicycled home, you entered a metal box that would soon hurl itself over mountains, rivers, valleys and an ocean. I would be missing you already, but you left the laundry unfolded on the bed and the clean dishes in the dishwasher. I've been so busy straightening up that I haven't really thought about the prospect of eating alone for the next two weeks.

the sound of the waves

Martin and I went on a mini-adventure and finally ventured out to see the wave organ, which had been on the to-do list since Martin found it on the atlas obscura. It was very windy as the fog blew in over the hills. The sun sparkled on the bay as tiny little sail boats soared amid the trans-pacific tanks. We held hands and kissed knowing tomorrow would bring work, travel and separation.

Martin looking out at the bay and GG bridge

tiny sail boat with fort mason in the background

Travel Note

When going through airport security, remove all large rocks from carry-on bags before sending them through the x-ray machine. Saves you from going through a bag check and explaining that your mother collects rocks for her labyrinth.

Travel

2 planes and a rather long car ride later we made it to Newberry, MI. And a few hours later I crashed.

Connections

Tree on the walk by Mission Bay around late afternoon

After almost three years, I'm still surprised when I run into people I know while out and about in this city by the bay. Today I saw a former co-worker waving hello as she rode by on her bicycle and ran into a former volunteer who worked at the cafe where we got brunch. I don't know if this place will ever feel like "home," but it's nice to be reminded of the connections I have made.

Center

Cause it's always the direction from center... right? Is there another perspective?

The labyrinth spirals out or is it in?

Within.

Find the center and start there.

No one said it would be easy

Highly edited photo of a sticker at the bottom of a street lamp near our apartment in SF.

Around the age of 13 or 14, even though my strongest subjects in school had always been math and science, I latched on to the idea that I wanted to be a novelist. A writer. I loved imagining that someday the dog-eared book on someone's nightstand would have my name on the cover.

Now even though I wanted to be a writer, I didn't really spend a lot of time writing. I wasn't bad at writing, but I didn't do it unless there was a reason - an assignment, report, paper, etc. On the other hand, I loved to read. Summers were spent waking up to pull the novel from my bedside and reading it until I could barely walk downstairs because I was fainting with hunger. Libraries weren't safe from my methodical hand (still aren't) as I would check out as many books as they would allow at a time.

Still, the idea of writing books was so strong in my imagination that I purposefully went to a university with a Creative Writing program. Ever the over-achiever, once I was at college, I found myself adding a second major - Music - and soon falling in love with Dance, which would become my minor on top of my two majors.  As a side note, they don't let students at my university have two majors and a minor any more and I totally understand why. Yet somehow, amidst all of the rehearsals, classes, performances, my campus job, studying abroad, etc, I managed to get myself in the position of writing a thesis for my Creative Writing major during my senior year.

Now a thesis for a Creative Writing major sounds great, right? No research. No documenting sources. No experiments or data. Just doing what I had dreamed about doing - writing. My thesis was to be a novela that told the story of young girl from an Arthurian story I had read in one of my literature courses. She was a minor character in the story who did an amazing thing that was glossed over to get to the more important parts about, you know, the men. So, I was going to give her a voice and story. Sadly, she ended up stealing mine.

Early on in the process, I started to panic a little bit.  Over three years, I had never created a habit of writing so actually making the time to do it was very difficult. And when I did make the time, I couldn't think of anything to write. After a few months of struggling, I had pretty much psyched myself out. My story revolved around my character doing nothing over and over again. I couldn't articulate my problems to my advisor, so I just kept trudging along, alone and afraid of when everyone would find out that my work wasn't really going anywhere.

Needless to say about three weeks before my thesis was due, the lack of anything substantial in my writing came to light. And the stress and negative feedback from my advisor over the following weeks was enough to make it completely impossible for me to write for the next two years. Slowly over time and with help of amazing mentors in the dance community, I was able to begin writing again. It's been seven years this May since I graduated from college and I still struggle with writing today.

But each little step - carrying a notebook around to jot ideas in, writing a grant for the organization I worked for, starting a blog with my mom - is helping me get over the trauma of that experience and to continue struggling towards my dream of my own dog-eared book.

Planting The Idea

At some point, the holiday season changed for me from being mostly about receiving and became more about giving. When I was little it was all about quantity - the more gifts, the better. When I was in my teenage years, it was all about the quality - the more expensive/desired the gift, the better. Then, there was a point, during my young adulthood, when I no longer cared as much about receiving. I wanted to give.

As I approached this current season of giving, I found myself not wanting to continue buying, literally, into our culture's consumerist mentality of what a gift is. My growing minimalist sensibilities led me to a different offering to my family and friends - I would either make something for them, recycle something from my life/home for them, or donate to a non-profit in their name. Interestingly, everyone opted for something made.

April 2010 - Lands End, SF

Me and mom with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background

For me, the beauty of a made gift is that it's formed with thought and intention. It's crafted with one's own mind and hands. It takes time. It takes effort. I feel like the creation and construction process imbues the gift with more meaning for both the giver and the receiver. As I contemplated what I would make for each of the people on my list, I found that with each person my mind went in different directions. For Jacob, my brother, something that would make him laugh. For Krista, my sister, something homey and useful. For you, my mother, something to connect across the distance.

April 2010 - Ocean Beach, SF

Smiling as mom sees the Pacific Ocean up close for the first time

As we live over 2,000 miles apart, we cannot be with each other as often we might be inclined. Not being phone people, we talk usually every two or three months. We have been fortunate to have seen each other three times in 2010. Twice in 2009. Emails here and there, but nothing consistent. So I asked myself, what would it be like to create a space where we could carry on a conversation over time and distance? What would emerge? And what if we included in that space an intention to share that experience, that conversation, beyond ourselves?

April 2010 - Lands End, SF

Me, on the top of the hill, looking out at the ocean while mom walks the labyrinth at Lands End

Therein was the seed - the idea - that I offered as my gift. An idea that we will plant here in this virtual blog space. That we have agreed to nurture and develop over the course of this year,2011. That we will then take, shape and manifest into a physical book to share with each other and our loved ones. Who knows how it will grow. Where it will flourish. What unexpected twists and turns it will take. I am full of anticipation and excitement. As always, the journey is as important as the beginning and end.