Every Breath is a New Beginning.

I like to tell myself that I “listen to my body.”

I think what I really mean is that I do whatever I want.

These are two very different things. I’ve had a lot of trouble this year listening and responding to what I truly need to stay healthy, in balance and productive, and in allowing myself to continue to operate in less-than-ideal conditions. I also tend to trade out needs for wants, and this… this is dangerous. Not life-threatening danger. At least, not in the short-term. But continuing down paths that throw you off-balance is harmful, if only emotionally or spiritually.

The naughty (and therefore unbalanced) me really enjoys being lazy. She loves to eat junk food, and at any and all hours of the day. She is quite tempted by the television, plays overabundantly on her computer and isn’t outside much. She exercises occasionally, when it’s convenient (or accidental) and gives up a workout for the prospect of plans with friends (all is takes is a “don’t go to dance class, come hang out!”). She stays up late and always puts others desires and suggestions first, ahead of her needs.

Then she wonders why she is always tired. Why she can’t keep things straight at work as well as she once could, or has the potential to do. Why the tire grows around the increasingly out-of-shape center of her body and the rest of her softens and weakens. Why she cries without knowing why and feels disparaged at will. Why she feels generally bored and uninterested in life…

…I need not continue. The writing is on the wall. But the key thing to remember is that getting stuck in this rut is not irreversible.

Last night, for the first time in too many moons to count, I returned to my yoga practice. As it was, I entered the room determined to be open to my teachers words, to leave self expectations outside and to work hard (yoga wisdom of yore: the class is not meant to be relaxing; the after-effect is). These initial efforts were only made easier by the guidance of an amazing teacher, filled with patience and wisdom that allowed each of us in the room to reach for our full potential at our own level. She met each of us where we were.

As many classes do, she began with our breathing. Simple, right? No. Not simple for me. My mind started planning a delicious dinner, ran through a to-do list, reviewed the day at work and generally did anything it could to avoid stopping, quieting down and focusing on my breath.

This was frustrating and could have caused even more spin and judgment in my mind, a la ’why can’t you just focus?’ or ’ah, I can’t do this!” but instead, the teacher gently reminded us that when our mind wandered, as in life, we had infinite chances to start over and start fresh.

“Each breath is a new beginning,” she reminded us.

That hit me hard, at the exact time my ears were thirsty to hear it. It’s never too late to recalibrate, to get back on course and to reconnect with that which is important to you. Never. Too. Late.

There are months left in Vermont during which I can still walk outside, hike, enjoy the lake views, run and generally connect with the out-of-doors. I need time and space outside of four walls and central air. It’s not too late to recommit to planning meals and cooking at home. It’s not too late to recommit to exercising five times a week.

The naughty me can still come out. She can have her Sunday afternoons and/or short moments in the spotlight. But she cannot own the spotlight, because balanced me must rule the roost. To ensure happiness, to ensure productivity, to ensure that I am healthy, the balanced me has got to win this one. She at least has to fight to start over.

Because as long as I can breath, there are new beginnings.

Tractor Pull of Life

Hello me. It’s me. Just checking in to remind us that it’s all ok, so calm down.

No trip to Mexico reminded me of that this time. Just a good ole-fashioned run-in with emotional rock bottom and the beginning of the ascent back up.

Have you ever seen a tractor pull? I really hadn’t, until recently. I asked a lot of questions during said event. Enough that most people stood up from their perch on the bleachers and moved far away from the four chatty blonde women. Especially the tall one asking all the questions. But I wanted to know how it works. You can’t appreciate something if you don’t know how it works.

But the point. The point is that a tractor can only pull so much weight. Just because of the kind of tractor it is. Its engine, its size, its age– components of its individual capacity– all determine how much weight it can pull and how far a tractor will go. And when it hits that limit, its wheels start to spin.

Life is like that too, and we’re all tractors in this little metaphor. H’Yut. We all have a limit and we all have the ability to hit it, and when we do, the only result is spin, no matter how hard you push the pedal and rev the engine. Limits change constantly. We grow, we’re challenged. We’re inspired, we’re tired. We’re given opportunity or we hit a stumbling block. The limits expand and retract throughout our lives.

But really, the other tractors in the pull have no effect on the winner or loser. The winning and the losing are all relative to common denominators, yes. Someone wins and someone loses, yes. But the biggest difference between the tractor pull and life is that in life, as an adult, the only person you are competing against is yourself. You win or lose relative to yourself. We’re all running our own race. And yes, sometimes our paths run parallel, or cross or even run headfirst into one another, but at the end of the day, no one is running the same path as you.

So we all must turn the mirror on ourselves and focus. The longer the mirror is facing outward, the more time is wasting. Turn it in and ask yourself:

What are my goals?
Why are those my goals?
How will I get there?
What must I do?
What mustn’t I do?
Who will help me get there?
Who stands in my way?
Do I stand in my own way… and how?

It starts with a lot of questions. But we better ask them now, because later seems like a far worse time to clear up the logistics when or if the intent is progress. Questions cause turmoil, yes. They can tear us up, for there are many questions in life that we may never know the answer to. But we still must ask them, to be sure that we are not making any assumptions.

These days, I’m asking a lot of questions. Who am I kidding, I’m always asking a lot of questions. But I have to. The spin of the wheels is just too exhausting. Anything to add to the list?

Get Real.

“I’m A.D.D.”

“OMG, I’m SO ADD! And I have anxiety.”

“Anxiety? Me too! High five!”

“High five!”

*All high five*

This is how they bonded. As the Real World cast gathered at a restaurant in Cancun, they immediately sought to define themselves in an around-the-table fashion by name first, then sexual orientation, “ethnicity,” as they put it, followed by diagnoses (and high-fived their similarities).

Really? It sounded like an oral college admissions form mixed with the form you fill out at your new primary physician’s office. But I suppose at that point, 21 or 22 years old, that is your point of reference.

Am I really that much older, at 27, to start a new relationship with definition by activities, interests, crew and maybe some background story? I observe the rest, but I don’t seek to define by it. Funny. Why must I define at all? Fair question, but if you are truthful with yourself, we all do it.

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever stop watching the Real World. Growing up, I didn’t have cable TV, much less anything fancier. I had PBS and NBC and thrived on the Cosby Show, Blossom, Saved by the Bell and the Fresh Prince (all-time fav). I wasn’t tapped in to MTV until my mid-teen’s, but as soon as I tapped in, I tapped into the Real World and caught up on everything I had missed. It just hooked and fascinated me, watching these people’s lives. And it had a far higher level of authenticity in its early days.

They set the mold in those early days by their actions. By what real people would do when picked to live in a house with strangers and have their lives taped. They hook up. They party. They are ridiculously lazy and undedicated to whatever task or so-called “job” they have been assigned. They cheat on and then break up with their boyfriends and girlfriends back home. They fight and there is always a domestically dramatic crescendo to every season.

21 seasons later, we have generations who have grown up in the Real World World. They don’t know a world without the Real World and its nine billion reality show successors. They are products of that world and now, we watch them live out the expectations we’ve raised them on. It’s insane.

The casting mode is still the same. It varies a bit from season to season, heavying up on one casting category or another, but this season, they almost nail their typical mode. A gay guy, a black person (they suffice one to be the norm, rather than ever have anything close to “the white person”), the heartthrob (whose roommates this season even nicknamed and refer to him as such), the rocker (or its modern day expression thereof), and a smattering of All-American girls with one out of the bunch being a little quirky (a la promise piercings), one being typically J-Crew and the other being a downright sweetheart of mixed undefinable “ethnicity.”

On Episode I, we’ve already nailed it all, from casting to decor to drama, although I must say that these season really took it out of the gate with the roomie love. There wasn’t too much I-hate-you-right-off-the-bat, though I can see that Emilee (J Crew of the girl crew) will have it out with at least Joey, if not Joey and CJ and the rest of ‘em before too long goes by. They set the stage for a sex storyline, a BFF storyline, an in-house hookup storyline, a breakup storyline and a clear work ethic problem storyline (they are set to be non-alcohol fun-on-spring-break promoters and they party their faces off), all in episode one.

Of all the storylines though, the sex-in-the-Real-World-house-with-an-outsider storyline is the one that floors me most. By now, as I said, these kids featured as the storyline, have grown up on the storyline. I’m schooled in the storyline of the Real World and yet, if I went on the Real World (ok, maybe three years ago), I would have lived it out myself. I won’t say “storyline” again. My point is, there ain’t nobody out there (that would find themselves in such a situation) who doesn’t know the premise of the Real World:

There are cameras everywhere.

Everything you do is fair game for TV.

Everywhere includes the bedroom and the paths to and from.

Everything includes you having sex.

YET, we have Joey (the rocker), who has announced he will host a different lady in his bed each week, kicking back on night two with his hands behind his head on tape like he’s hosting and starring in a porn video. Which means there was a willing lady accompanying him.

We aren’t talking about hidden cameras. You can’t tell me you didn’t know they were there. They have had cameras in the bedrooms maybe always but at least as many seasons back as I can remember. You can’t tell me “I forgot all about the cameras.” You knew you were having sex on camera in the Real World House with a Real World cast member that would be broadcast internationally and set in history’s stone. With your face on it. And maybe your ass.

Seriously?

You have to be proud, or you wouldn’t have done it. Even her walk of shame out of the house (and she did look like she lost her dignity on the way out) was captured and broadcast in Season 22, Episode I. Well done. Oh, did I forget to mention that her mom (whom a roommate nicknamed “Sharon Osborne’s twin”) made out with another roommate in the bar. She did. He did. They did.

At least they plugged condom use as an expected action that only an idiot would omit.

High five!

Maybe someday I’ll stop watching the Real World. But not until I stop loving it. And even when I hate it, I still love it, so I stay plugged in. I see how much ground we’re losing and I see that we’re still following the mold. I can plug everyone in my life into a place or a melding of the mold and then… I feel normal, too. Right? Like I live in the Real World. But in mine, I actually have to get up for work and try. Nothing is paid for on my behalf. No one pranks me in the night and I’m not hooking up with my roommate, while talking to my boyfriend back home. I didn’t get punched in the face at the bar last night by a transsexual who thought she was a better singer than I. And my other roommate is not going through a sex change, identity crisis, abortion, teen divorce, sexual abuse or anything even close. In short, my life is boring.

So, I’ll just keep livin’ mine and watching theirs. And we’ll all keep on rockin’ in the Real World.

Things I Remembered in Mexico.

I was going to title this post “Things I Learned in Mexico.” But these aren’t things I learned; these are things I know. Things I lost perspective of, things I forgot. So voici, the things I remembered in Mexico.

I am A-OK.

Sometimes marinating in a situation that has made you unhappy can be a bit of a rabbit hole. You’re miserable because you are still in the place that made you miserable… and since you are miserable, you stay there. A break and some physical space from it all reminded me that I am fine. I am more than fine; I am fan-fucking-tastic. When my mind is fully on the task at hand, I will kill it. So inviting things, or people or situations into my life that distract and pull me away from the task at hand… well, that’s just stupid. Why would one do that? I did, but now I won’t. I feel good when I’m killing it. The reverse; not so much. And I like to feel good.

Good Friends Can Cure Any Ailment.

Stress. Heartbreak. Fatigue. Confusion. Indecision. Whether beat down from the routine of life (to which I have never responded well anyway) or confused by a parade of questions that don’t seem to settle and answer themselves, I was worked up three weeks ago in a way that I thought even a vacation couldn’t help. I didn’t know what could, but I was annoyed by the cheerful chirps around me that repeated, “you really need this vacation.” In response I thought to myself, “F*** off.” I accepted and dealt with those that treated me less than stellar. Considering I typically do not treat others less than stellar, it is only in a weakened state of mind that I’d put up with it in my direction. But I did. Then I spent a week with phenomenal people. I mean really good people. People who work hard, who treat others like they are important and deserve respect, love and consideration, people who show the ones they love how much they love them. Yes, please, I’ll have some more of that. It reminded me that these people are out there and though the drama of the other side is enticing and exciting, like the Devil, in the long run it will kill you.

It’s ok necessary to relax.

Goodness. I now distinguish between a weekend of laying around (my typical “relaxation”) and a vacation. It took me a couple days to stop asking what time it was or what we were doing next. But I did. I let go. I did whatever, whenever. I stayed in when I wanted, I went out when I wanted (ok, I did push myself to move the “nothingness” to the beach whenever possible rather than stay inside), I ate when I wanted, I slept when I wanted. It was blissful. Pure, pure heavenly bliss. I did most of these things right on the beach, amongst breathtaking scenery and sounds, and hours upon hours would fly by before I knew it. I spent seven straight hours on the beach one day without blinking an eye. I went to bed at about nine that evening, but ohhh was it worth it. It is truly, truly, truly important to make these times possible for ourselves and to give our bodies the chance to rest, let go and rejuvenate. It’s far too easy to say “I don’t have the time,” or “I can’t take the time.” But you do… and you must.

I do, in fact, flourish under the hot sun. But there is such a thing as “too hot.”

Bottom line: I soaked up an insane amount of Vitamin D. I’m seven shades darker than when I arrived in Mexico, which I did very responsibly, thank you very much. Actually, more than 20 minutes in the direct sun had me feeling like a rotisserie chicken, so there was a built-in “I can’t handle it!” timer instilled in me (cured by a dive into the sea). But the warmth of the days and the time I did spend… I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the amount of sunlight affects me. And hopefully I stored up a good supply of the good stuff to last for a while (or enough that I can sustain with the weak Vermont summer sun).  It can be too hot though and many times, it was. I stayed near the water for a reason. And I need to see, feel and hear the ocean as much as I need the sun. 

And finally… I have it good here. Real good.

I can be Complainy McComplainerton all day long. It’s uniquely possible for those who have it good to find that which ails them. But seeing how poor the people in the Oaxaca region I visited were, yet still so happy and gracious; it gave me a much-needed reality check. It is always a good reminder that “things” and “stuff” are not where it’s at. “Love” and “appreciation” and “hard work” are precisely where it’s at. So upon returning to all of my blessings– a secure roof over my head and four surrounding walls to enclose the building (nope, walls were not the norm in Mexico), personal space and lots of it, all the belongings (and much more) than I could ever need to survive, a job and benefits that keep me occupied, engaged, fed and healthy, friends and family that care… I could continue indefinitely. I am so thankful for these things and it would serve me well to wake up and remember that. Not to think “another day in blah land.”

Summer is here. That’s my peak time of year. This summer I want to truly carpe the living hell out of the diem. To enjoy every second and make the most of every second– whatever that means in the moment. To appreciate those that make my life better and contribute every day. To love Burlington, to be thankful and gracious at my job, to lead rather than drag myself along into the mess.

It ain’t so bad. And if it is… well, stop talking and do something to fix it!

Thank you for reading, cyber universe.

Peace out, U.S. and A.

I’m moving to Mexico tomorrow. I’ll probably move back to Vermont next Sunday though… we’ll see. Maybe I’ll catch the swine flu, maybe I won’t. I hear you get a free round trip if you do catch it in Mexico, though, so I see a silver lining there!

I want to relax in a change of scenery, listen to the waves, feel the sand. Lay around. I definitely want to lay around. Let my thoughts continue to sort themselves peacefully. Read books and magazines without interruption or temptation from the world wide interwebs. Talk to long-time-no-see but love-you-long-time friends. Eat real authentic Mexican food! Mmmmm. Drink margaritas and cervezas. Oh rats, I should have packed Cheez-It’s. My favorite beach food (yes, I did just admit that).

Witness my best friend get married. I can’t even begin to understand that one til I see it. I am having a particularly hard time with the idea of marriage and weddings and all it entails right now, but for her I am happy and now it’s as it should be. My baggage won’t be her baggage.

And hopefully return (if I move back) rejuvenated and ready to keep on rockin’ in the free world. If not; we’ll, it was nice talking at you.

Patience.

Healing comes slowly. One day at a time. Patience really is my everlasting test.

I miss.

…laughing until my face hurts. Knowing y’all are laughing just as hard.

…dance parties exclusively for me. Leading to laughing until my face hurts.

…stealing…err… borrowing… pogo sticks from the alley way and nearly breaking limbs.

…complete intoxication from each other and the fun we had every single night.

…recapping every night the next day.

…complete dedication to our crew and only our crew. For as long as it lasted.

…late, late, late-night parties at the Pearl St. Palace, entertaining out of town guests and keeping neighbors awake ’til 4 a.m. Nearly breaking my face with laughter, smiles and love.

…any one of us returning to the airport and the caravan of retrieval, story-telling and music-sharing.

…impromptu trips down highway 89, just because it would mean something to me. And it did.

…times at the Tav, for better or for worse, but always to celebrate something.

…gasping for breath, laughing at the drink that did not spill on the arm of the couch *head roll*.

…baking the ginger for the vodka that cost me an arm and a leg and would inevitably make me sick.

…3-way IM conversations that threatened friendships. For the day.

…our world, within our world, within the world.

I miss. I miss. But that’s what memories are for.

The Beach.

Nah, not the movie. Nothing to do with Leo DiCaprio to be found here. Only an old college paper, as I sift through saved and cherished pages of my own history. I have a selection of papers that I kept over the years and glancing through them, I seek to understand why I kept them. For the most part, it looks like I kept those that received the most accolades from my professor at the time. I share one here because it obviously offered me an advantage to write about something close to my heart. As I read it, and then I read my professor’s comments, I wonder what caught him so aggressively. Maybe it was me. Hopefully it was my writing. Either way, it obviously went over my head at the time. I would have been a sophomore in college and I assume the assignment was some sort of descriptive writing… at least I hope it was along those lines. It is called, “The Beach.”

THE BEACH

I awake early in the morning to the sounds of the small bay waves crashing upon the shore. A sea-salty smell tickles my nose and the ocean air makes my skin feel sticky and salty. I roll over in my bed and feel the sand still left on my body from the day before rub against and scratch my body. I look out the window and take in a deep breath. The smell of the ocean that had previously only danced along the edge of my nose now fills my nostrils and I close my eyes as I suck in the air. In a complete state of relaxation, I open them again, the beautiful day  calling me to leave my bed for the grainy, gritty, warm sand of the beach outside. 

The sky is a brilliant shade of blue and there are fluffy white clouds littering the horizon. A small dark cloud here or there threatens the day, but they will pass, leaving only a hot summer beach.

I slide out of bed and my feet hit the floor, which is also covered in salt tracked in from the beach. I slip on my bathing suit and cover it with a pair of shorts and a tee shirt. Grabbing a blanket and towel, I bust out of the door of the house, and head down toward the sandy shore below. I cut my way through the grass-covered sand dunes, climbing up, over and down them to the waters’ edge. I spread out my blanket close to the water so that the waves will splash my feet without getting my blanket wet. I sit on the edge of the blanket and look out at the bay. Small sailboats speckle the water in front of me, anchored in place. Their masts stand tall and thin above the colored boats, with names painted on the side, such as The Elizabeth, named for somebodies wife or lover. They rest there, rolling back and forth in the soft lull of the moving tide. Some have their sails full of wind as they move out of the harbor and into the sprawling Atlantic Ocean.

I watch them glide along, and I feel completely at peace. Cape Cod, Massachusetts is built into my genes; I breathe it and I need it to live from one year to the next. I lay back on my blanket, cool waves lapping at my feet, soft wind blowing small bits of sand across the beach and my body, the sun warming my soul, and slowly, I drift off to sleep.

And my teacher/professor’s response?

Wow! Wow! Again!

This is a breathtaking effort. You have a gracefulness with words and writing well beyond your years, and mine for that matter. Please please keep writing. I would love to read anything you wrote –> anytime! It’s been wonderful having you in class. This piece should be polished and submitted to the Marr’s Field Journal. Excellent (well-beyond, really). A+

That shocks me. Even now. 

Cross-pollenating Projects.

Six years ago, I lived in Paris for just over four months. It changed my life forever. It was the beginning of the war on terror (our first day bombing Iraq was the day my family flew to visit me, and I was petrified, mesmerized and disgusted) and there I was living in another country– and traveling to many more– that entire time, representing America and an American to any and everyone I met (except once in a while, when I pretended to be Canadian). To experience that from another cultural perspective made an impact on who I am that can never be erased. 

I wrote home at least once a week to a large audience of friends and family. I received amazing responses and the series got a name: the France Chronicles. I also kept a diary of the experience. 

Lately, it feels like something should be done with this. Remind me of the adventure that changed my life and the importance of why I took it. So I am. I’m not sure what, but I am going to blog all of the Chronicles first and then see how it grows from there. It should be fun, at the least, to relive a college-abroad experience. The best part is to look back and hear myself, my voice, at the ripe, sage age of 20 years old. 

So, here it is: http://francechronicles.wordpress.com

MA VIE A PARIS: THE FRANCE CHRONICLES

This is a story told via email. It all began in January 2003, when a college junior with a passion for French left Tuscaloosa, Alabama for the city of lights. She wrote home often, in long anecdotal doses eventually termed the “France Chronicles.”

There was no Facebook then, no Twitter, no MySpace even. Hell, there were few people even using digital cameras (thus photos will be posted as they are dug up, scanned and uploaded!) at that time. The story was told piece-meal, as it unfolded, via email only. The stories were (and still are) long-winded as only a college-aged omniscient gal can pull off.

Both attending intensive french language study at the Sorbonne–University of Paris, and learning to live abroad in a community of Americans from across the States, but within another culture and country just as the U.S. instigated the war on terror in Iraq, her emails jump schizophrenically from one topic and moment in her day to another. They conceitedly detail her experience with humor, honesty and candor. But within them is woven a story of maturity and growth, as she confidently makes her way through this new challenge to come out on the other side forever obsessed with a passionate city that will never leave her heart.

Grammar has been edited to protect the innocent, but the “I was like” and “he was like” and the detail minutia have been preserved to protect the authentic story. Employ patience and determination in reading! This is a project. Step one: episodes of the France Chronicles will be continually posted until they are all up, and from there… …stay tuned!

It’s hard…

…to be strong and stick to your guns. I’ll wager that is why we (or many of us) generally don’t. But I remind myself why I am here and why I must stay here. Things haven’t changed, so neither will my position. Einnnnn… kinda makes me want to throw a tantrum.