Tag: travel

A Way Out

Nobody can make it “okay” except for you.

You’re struggling. I get it.  I’ve been there in so many ways, so many times, you wouldn’t believe it.

The only way out is you.

I’ve been penniless before.  I’ve starved three times in my adult life:  twice when I was pregnant with each of my kids.

I’m talking:

We daydreamed of what might be in the refrigerator,

we were so poor;

and that’s not even nearly the worst I’ve suffered through.

So, I get it.

But here’s the thing:

Find what you love,

not WHO you love.

Do what you love,

not WHO you love.

That solves everything.

Literally everything.

BE who you love;

That’s really the only step.

There’s just one. That’s it.

Your stories are, unfortunately, just a slow way for you to examine yourself until you can get to THAT TRUTH,

and, until you figure out THAT TRUTH, your stories are unfortunately just excuses.

I’m not dismissing you. I’m trying to help you.

But it is up to you to decide that you are committed to you.

Write.

Every single day.

You can use your computer, if you like.

Just use Notepad.

But write EVERY SINGLE DAY:

Write your stories;

Write them THERE.

Write about your frustrations.

Write about your dreams.

Write until you’re sick of hearing yourself write.

Write until you’re sick of complaining about the same old shit.

Write and write and write and write and write and write.

Something will break in you.

Don’t judge ANYTHING you think or feel.

Write it ALL there.

It’s your sacred place without judgement.

Let no one read it unless you feel like they are someone you feel you could die with:

I mean that very very literally.

Let no one read it unless you TRULY want to share it.

Write like it was going to save your life –

Because it WILL,

if you keep writing.

When you feel like it, go back and read old pages.

Write about your hopes, your dreams, your frustrations.

Write about how sick you are of whatever you’re sick of.

Write about how stupid I am for giving you this damned assignment – if that’s what you feel.

But WRITE

EVERY DAY.

Give yourself a word limit. You can write more, but not less.

You’ll fail.

Do it again.

Keep writing.

THAT is how I saved myself.

Part of it, anyway; but that was significant, huge.

That’s why you have to commit, first. You see?

Your conscious mind will find a way to express to you all of what matters, and the writing will tell your mind that these are the things that matter to you most.

It will focus on solutions for those problems

and it will help you find them;

but if you are dishonest

you are only cheating YOURSELF

and you will find yourself unhappy.

It’s as easy as this:

If you go to McDonald’s and order a Big Mac when you really want an ice cream cone, you can’t blame anyone except yourself for NOT getting the ice cream cone.

Understand?

And if you HATE McDonald’s?

You can’t blame the existence of McDonald’s.

You can only blame yourself for GOING there.

Super-easy, huh?

** With credit and profound thanks to Julie Cameron for her wise advice in The Artist’s Way and to the late Frank Herbert for his immense wisdom in all the books of the DUNE series – all of which has changed my life only because I took it all and made it mine.

Do What You Like

Or:  Self-Indulgence on a Summer Morn

(Originally published on Medium.com)

It is this bizarre trembling that I wake to, this sensation of needing to get up, to do something — and, instead, I sit; I write.

This is what you crave, what people crave to do, what they are tempted, lured to indulge in. This is the drug, the addiction; this is the overindulgence that we call “intelligent” — when it is really just indulgence, really just a cure for those who overindulge in something else more physical, just the drug for those who are addicted to reading, to sinking into someone else’s mind.

Here. Here is my mind; here are my thoughts, poured into my fingers pressing upon small buttons on a mechanical device to appear on a page and rest here, to be read by you, to be read by someone, to be read by no one and forgotten for who-knows-how-long (maybe forever?).

Here is the flow of my mind; the depths of my soul lurk somewhere underneath, deep within my mind in ways only I can feel, sitting in my lap like a child waiting for the time when I will indulge him, her in a game of hide-and-seek or some coloring, or a walk in that ridiculously-high heat of the Arizona summer.

Here is my life, or the culmination of my life, anyway; and you do not know (or do you care to know?) that I am surrounded by piles of books, a scattering of pencils to the right of me, and pens; a cup of lukewarm coffee made too sweet to drink, mixed with almond milk and raw sugar, molasses instead of cream-and-white-sugar, since I don’t really want the sinking feeling in my gut and instant-sugar-rush from traditional coffee condiments. My roommate and I are too lazy, too carefree, too care-less to bother with even bringing dirty dishes to the sink, washing them regularly, clearing the table of the stifling mess; he plays his games when he gets home from work, and I sit here all day, mulling, writing (when I feel the urge or give into the demand), playing writing games or reading to sink into another world away from the reality-of-me.

I’m heavier than I like to be; and I don’t give a damn that anyone thinks I’m sexy as I am. I put on at least 30 pounds that I’ve managed to keep, while traveling to England last year; and, though I lost some of it while working at the country club most recently (six months ago?! How time flies when you’re doing nothing but brooding!), I’ve put it all on again.

I could lose it, if I walked daily — especially in this Arizona heat. It was 115 degrees Fahrenheit at 4:30pm yesterday, when my roommate and I walked from the grocery store, laden with veggies, apples, pasta, things for me to make for us to eat. One-hundred-and-fifteen degrees, which I may have experienced once or twice as a youth in the suburbs of Atlanta, but it’s a dry heat here, and for a natural blonde like me, even one who tans, but who has not been acclimatized to this kind of heat, I found it stifling, draining the energy out of me until I felt dizzy.

He put away the groceries when we got home; I advised him as to what went where as I sucked down one, two litres of refrigerator-chilled water dosed with a raspberry-flavored electrolyte-powder so I might start to feel normal; then munched steadily on organic sea-salt-and-lime-flavored tortilla chips with peach salsa: sugars to increase my blood sugar; salt to replace what I had lost to my skin whilst sweating.

My roommate, a very-dark Hatian-American, was still dripping sweat; large drops formed on his forehead and streamed down his face, the dry comment that followed from the kitchen proving his own loss of salt: “Don’t you love it when you get sweat in your eyes??!”

We discussed the natures of black-people-versus-white-people in this heat with a leisureliness evident of our true friendship: he joked about and explained with such casual acceptance the biological whys of negro slaves kept by white slave-owners that I felt like the weaker side of the human race. I was dizzy for well over an hour while he kept moving, sweating; his more-efficient body cooling himself with the puddles streaming down his face, pouring off of his body proving that only he, of the two of us, could handle the heat that we both love.

I could burden myself with guilt about the condition of our shared living space, the fact that I haven’t done the laundry this week — though I keep telling myself, nearly every day, that I should get up, brave the embrace of that hot hallway outside the door of this well-cooled apartment, walk down those stairs and just put the laundry into one of those machines beyond the swimming pool. For that matter, why not dress in a bathing suit and cover-up, take a bottle or two of ice water, slather myself with coconut oil, and bake in the morning sun for a bit while the laundry washes and dries?

It’s 99 degrees, and it’s only five-to-ten in the morning. If I go now, I can get a suntan and have the laundry washed-and-dried before the temperature raises the additional twenty-one degrees that it’s anticipated to be by five-o’clock this evening.

It’s 99 degrees, and it’s only four-to-ten in the morning. The thought is mind-boggling.

I’m going to do it. Leave the clutter of this apartment, leave the unwashed dishes, and go do the impossible, the ridiculous: I’m going to slip into a bikini, gather the laundry and go downstairs, beyond the pool; and then lie there by the pool, soaking up the sun. How else will I acclimate to this heat? How else will I get the bronzed skin I love so much? How else will I have the clean clothes I want???

You think it’s simple, don’t you? Doing something that you want to do, but don’t want to do.

But you do the same, don’t you? All the time; every day, you avoid things you want to do:

You don’t love when you want to.

You don’t call when you want to.

You don’t write when you want to.

You don’t paint.

You don’t cry.

You don’t draw.

You don’t play.

You don’t listen.

You think my cluttered house is despicable, my lazy lifestyle is deplorable, offensive. And I tell you: it’s just the same. We’re just the same.

My life, like yours, is spent doing what I feel is most important. I sit inside my mind, listening, meditating to the sound of the air conditioner, awaiting the song of the mockingbird in the tree just outside, watching the leaves blow.

I’ve learned to know my feelings, to follow my heart’s and my mind’s flow. I know myself so well that I can put these words so clearly that you can taste them, feel them, know them as your own. That you can see my life. That you can sit here, almost, and deplore with me the empty Pizza Hut boxes, the empty Noosa yogurt container, the mostly-empty bag of granola, the scattered books and pens and receipts — all of which would take but a few minutes to clear up, to clean up, to usher away into the big, blue, metal garbage bin just down the hall, the other way, and down the other stairs.

Maybe I’ll clear that out, too, after all.

Maybe I’ll do all kinds of things.

But here’s the thing I know, that maybe you know, too, but that I have to learn day after day, and that my oh-so-black Hatian-American roommate whom I love dearly and who loves me dearly has me learn, day after day, week after week, while I live with him, on his penny, on his nickel, on his dime, on his quarter, on his dollar, on his life-blood:

I do what I like. There is nothing greater, nothing else, and nothing more important than respect of oneself, respect of one’s own life and love and time and values.

Indulge in all you love.

You’re indulging anyway.

Crosswinds

Somehow, he had managed to have them upgraded to first-class seats.

Somehow, she thought, when he doesn’t even have air miles or priority status.

He was just charming, that way.

They boarded and found wide, comfortable seats next to each other. She loved flying first-class: she loved the free alcoholic beverages (even though she didn’t drink that much) and the cute snack baskets in which flight attendants carry so many unnecessary goodies (even if they were things she’d never eat at home); it felt like when she was a child on road trips with her parents. Her mom would always pack coolers full of soda and water bottles, would pack bags full of their favorite munchies so the kids wouldn’t be anxious or obnoxious on the trip and Dad wouldn’t have to stop “every ten minutes” to satisfy one child’s or another’s hunger pangs.

They hand out blankets, in first class, when you’re cold and pillows if you need them; and they are always unfailingly nice.

He leaned over and buried his nose in her hair; lingered. She smirked, turned her head just slightly towards him.

“Hmm… comfortable?” she asked.

He smirked, his grin only visible from the shift in his cheekbones that she could make out peripherally. “Mmmmm…” he hummed happily. He parted her hair with his sharp nose and pressed his warm lips against her neck.

She shuddered, let out a soft gasp and tilted her head oppositely to give him access; his teeth sank impressionably into her skin.

Thirteen lived her life with a strong awareness of the world around her; but, when she was with Twenty-Six, it was challenging to maintain even in the best of times. …Well… let’s make that: ‘even when he wasn’t touching her skin.’ But her habitual love of observation, of learning all she could about the world around her always kicked in, demanding she become aware, considerate of others despite the inconvenience it sometimes posed to various parts of her life.

Twenty-Six knew this about her, and it was one of the things he enjoyed most. He knew of her duality of purpose: both to learn about and to love the world for what it is, while breaking every rule that bound her to those traditions and ways of thinking she considered antiquated or obsolete. He knew, also, that it implied Thirteen would only inconvenience others or disturb their comfort as a result of her behaviors if she considered her pleasure, behavior and priorities to be – very innocently – more important than theirs… particularly when she assessed they might learn something from her daring nature.

So, Twenty-Six took pleasure in testing Thirteen’s boundaries, even if it meant he irked her sometimes. He loved playing games, and she was – quite literally – his favorite playmate.

Twenty-Six shifted his teeth meaningfully, pressing his sharp incisors just a fraction deeper into her throat. Thirteen’s low moan and the throbbing pulse beneath his lips indicated that Twenty-Six was winning the attention he prized; he paused and lightly licked the warm skin caught between his teeth.

She shuddered again and closed her eyes, goosebumps raising all over her skin.

Suddenly, Thirteen jerked the rest of her body to attention, her eyes open slightly, and glanced around the plane like a doe watching for predators. Her head and neck did not otherwise move.

So far, it seemed they were unsettling no one. The businessmen across the aisle were caught up with their martinis and cell phones; she could see no one else who might have noticed.

Thirteen lifted her hand and stroked Twenty-Six’s cheek, hidden under her waves of hair; then gently herself pulled herself away.

Twenty-Six did not move, but watched her with wide, child-like eyes. He murmured, his voice low and facile, “What? You didn’t like it?” The twinkle in his eyes and smirk forming at the corners of his mouth could not be repressed.

Thirteen’s lashes lowered shyly, acknowledging that her handsome companion had achieved his ends. She leaned over to his earlobe and, her hot breath falling upon his skin, confirmed:  “…You’re driving me crazy. You know you are….”

One side of Twenty-Six’s mouth lifted to a victorious half-smile.  He had wanted to push her more, had learned her limits, knew when was best to push them… and this was Thirteen’s way of saying she wanted everything he would deliver (and possibly more than he had yet contrived), and that she trusted him enough to break every foul rule in every book, was ready and willing to walk together, unabashedly, straight into Heaven or Hell or jail or whatever-might-result from doing so…

But that could wait.

Twenty-Six had been with plenty of women over the years, and none was quite like Thirteen. There were women more ravenously eager, more carnally-driven, but he had long ago lost interest in them. They were, to him, the soul-equivalent of vultures and hyenas:  They had a job to do and they did it exceptionally well; no one could fault or criticize them for any of what they were. They were even – and often! – quite physically beautiful, kind, sweet ladies; but he found their motivations shallow. There were no hidden parts to women like that; there were no discoveries, no surprises.

There were women, too, more naively innocent than Thirteen… but they just made Twenty-Six feel dirty, evil, cruel when he toyed with them. Which, he remembered well, he had.

He played with women for years on end, until he met Thirteen. He was even expecting to play with her, when they met… until he quickly found he couldn’t. The longer he gazed into her immortal eyes, the longer he spent looking at any part of her, the more he felt connected to her… and the more he saw of her. She was so open, so guileless… so vast. It was like she started, at first glance, as a mere female, then took shape as a sensual and beautiful woman, and then just kept expanding infinitely… while, somehow, she managed to keep her multitudinous universes spiraling, growing inside her very feminine figure. He didn’t quite get lost, but sometimes… wouldn’t it be fun to? Because, god, she was beautiful…!

He had confessed to her the game he played with other women, when they met. He confessed his reasons for playing: that he was bored with the women he met, that they did little for his intelligence or for his ego; that it was no great boost to be considered fantastically-attractive by women to whom he was only physically attracted. He had used women like one uses drugs, needing more and more, becoming increasingly less satisfied, intrigued, happy…

And he confessed his original intentions with her.

He fully expected her to walk away from him, at that last point. He fully expected her to hate him, to judge him, to consider him absolutely beneath her — and, she didn’t. Even when, many times, he hated himself for what he did with women.

The memory flickered through Twenty-Six’s mind in an instant as he watched her; and his playful mood shifted urgently to express his mind’s subconscious, intense conclusion. His hands lifted to hold her face, his eyes poured silently passionate emotion into hers. His heart felt like it would burst if he did not do something; his blood surging through him like a flood, he felt a nearly-overwhelming desire to take her, then and there.

He pressed his lips to hers instead. He held himself there, held her face strongly, gently.  Their lips did not move for eternal moments, the river of his energy rushing into her, binding them together with the exact effect of touching a live wire.

Finally, after what seemed like eons, he felt his passion ease just a fraction; his lips parted and the primal part of his psyche took control. Their lips parted synchronously; his tongue found hers and danced, lapped at her mouth as he drank renewed and intermingled energy from her like a thirsty animal at a crystal spring.

She responded perfectly; there was no thought in her but him, yet her awareness of the entire plane, of the entire world became increasing complete. It felt, to her, like his passion drove her entire body and mind into perpetually-heightened states of relaxed sensitivity; this feeling – however in her life she could find it – always felt like surfing, like riding the crest of a wave into complete understanding.

Her cheek twitched suddenly, involuntarily, and she opened her eyes, glanced up. A pretty Italian stewardess looked on with eyes that admitted she’d been admiring their love for more than a few seconds. The stewardess smiled gently, her eyes approvingly warm, and her cheeks glowing with a gently fresh flush.

Thirteen gracefully pulled away from Twenty-Six and took his left hand in a fluid motion as uncomplicated as as the ocean’s waves pulling away from the seashore. Thirteen smiled slowly, easily, her cheeks and lips now painted several shades brighter than the stewardess’.

Twenty-Six’s gaze shifted from Thirteen’s face to the window for brief moments, his mind assessing the undesired pause. He turned his head towards the stewardess, lifting his eyes only enough to peripherally appraise the situation.  His jaw tensed and he fixed his gaze on the seat in front of him. His heart was exclusively Thirteen’s; and he was visibly annoyed at the disturbance. Thirteen’s thighs shifted under her skirt and Twenty-Six’s tension eased a fraction, redirected. His mind focused distantly, flicked through all of the things he would do to Thirteen if only this damned stewardess would leave.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but we’re preparing for departure,” the stewardess explained, glancing down at Twenty-Six’s face in an attempt to catch his unyielding gaze. Failing, her face flushed lightly and she shifted her eyes to Thirteen.

Thirteen smiled warmly at the girl and thanked her. Thirteen’s thumb lightly brushed the inside of Twenty-Six’s tensed thumb as the as she spoke; the stewardess smiled apologetically and walked away.

Thirteen moved her fingers to lay flat under Twenty-Six’s, then slipped her fingers between his and squeezed gently. His face had hardened slightly, his eyes narrowed. His hand tightened on hers fractionally, a hint of possessiveness breaking free.

“Why didn’t we stay at home?” he grumbled.

Thirteen’s lips curled into an entertained smile and she laughed. “You silly man. Because you wanted to show me that tiny island you love.” Thirteen’s eyes danced merrily as she watched for his bitter expression to fade.

Twenty-Six turned and looked into Thirteen’s merry eyes. His lips relaxed into a grin, her joy and love infecting him once again.

He shook his head lightly, like shaking off the dust of ages from his mind. His gaze fell again to her flowing skirt and he released her hand carefully. Twenty-Six leaned towards Thirteen and kissed her lips lightly.

“Right,” he uttered, slipping a warm hand beneath the light fabric at her knee, ripples of goosebumps raised in the wake as his fingers traced a line from her bare thigh to her hip.

Photo ©2016 MLM

What Happens When You Let Your Dreams Wake You

I was sleeping, dreaming an unusual dream, when I woke suddenly

I stepped outside the room and looked through the tall, glass window in the centre of the loft

Clutching the robe to my chest, I walked down the steps, barefoot, onto the dew-drenched grass

My cold feet braced against the shocking pain of the stony path as I made my way to the misty field

And he saw me

Some dreams are worth the waking

This Side of Nothing

It’s not what I thought it would be.

I gained a good thirty pounds, I’m sure.  They still say I’m sexy, and maybe I am…. Sometimes I feel so, and mostly I just don’t know.

I never thought I’d be so comfortable lounging around in the late English summer, breezes blowing coolly across a grassy lawn and stirring the leaves in the trees so they sound like ocean waves coming ashore, RAF planes flying overhead at indiscriminate intervals.

I didn’t think I’d feel so comfortable after starting to fall out of love, to rest so gently on its precipice.  I’ve always thought:  If I’m out of love, I’ll be alone.  I won’t be me.

But I’m not alone.  And I’m still me.

Maybe I’m even more me than ever.  I certainly express more of what I think and feel, in the moments of thinking-and-feeling.

And he’s not too bothered, not enough to wish me gone.  Perhaps it’s because I still love him….  Perhaps it’s because he loves me.

I’m just, more or less, alone.  Exactly the way I like to be.

Falling out of interest with falling in love, but sitting on this precipice, nonetheless.  Not in love nor out of it, but just loving.

It’s funny, because it’s what he talked about from the beginning, what he’s been so concerned that I feel, more than anything:  That I’m comfortable.

I didn’t want to be comfortable.  I resisted fiercely.  

I’ve grown so accustomed to being uncomfortable, to being on the verge of falling off a cliff of some sort or other, to facing my fears, to facing my demons, to mirroring others’ demons so they can face them.  It’s not always fun, but the coming-out is; and it’s always rewarding.  You inhale a great breath as you walk out of Hell and you never know where you’ll end up.

Before, you were often there, or rather, you’d come around again to check in with me, to check in on me.

C: “How are you doing with your injury?”

M: “It hurts, and it’s very swollen.  I have to take the pain meds pretty regularly, and I get really tired.  But it doesn’t hurt as much as it did.”

C: “…How are you otherwise?”

M: “I’m lonely.”

C: “What about the 50k guys that were swarming you?”

M: “That’s why I’m lonely.  Swarms mean there’s no connection and the real people can’t get through.”

C: “I understand.  I am kind of a needy male, too.”

C. & M. text conversation

I told him when I met him that I’d lose you, if I fell in love with him, if I ever wound up with him.  Was it Fate or some strange connection between us, some strange agreement made long ago in an unspoken language?  Whatever the case, the timing was as queerly precise as ever.  And, boy, did you seem angry.

But I guess I’ve walked out of Hell again; and, instead of you (or anyone, really, except for him), I’ve ended up on a very cozy, quiet farm in the east of England where the birds chatter all day and for most of the night, where the farmer is flirtatious and kind, where the horses nibble grass all day long, and the foxes cry at night like complaining factory machines.  The doves, however, drive me crazy with their plaintive coos that sound, to me, like a sleeping baby with a bronchial infection.

And I am alone all day long; kept watch over all night long.

I thought I was coming to Europe to run – actually, to sail – away from my problems and into myself.  Greece was gorgeous, but it didn’t work the way I had planned. I was sad that I had nowhere to go next, that my plans were dashed.  And you made it clear that I was not to come visit you, expressed in no uncertain terms; and I couldn’t alternately arrange to visit my friend in Italy.

So, I returned to England.

Sex with the Englishman I’m with is grand, but it is not enough.  But I knew that with you.

Nor is it an escape.  I knew that with you, as well, but I never knew it so well as I know now.

Supplant “sex” for “travel,” “TV,” “books,” “writing,” or “work” and the truth clings intensely in all cases:  

Not a single one is ever enough, in itself.  Not a single, solitary activity can ever be a viable escape.

You want to know what our problem was?  I’ve wondered for seven years.  

It wasn’t money, neither having exorbitant amounts to spend frivolously nor suddenly having next-to-none.  It wasn’t that we loved our love life and explored voraciously.  It wasn’t your history or mine; it wasn’t even your jealousy or my vehement heart.  

It was our isolation, yours and mine, from each other, and from ourselves.

Particularly from ourselves.

I find myself as isolated as I’ve ever been in my life, now, for most of the day, for most days.  I still wake up vibrant and excited when I know I’m going somewhere new to explore and see things I’ve never seen before, to indulge in my passion of connecting with strangers, to let my curiosity guide me.  I can wash my bare feet in frigid ocean waters as comfortably as burying my toes in warm sands under the intense sun.  I wander sweet-scented woods, wondering at the ages of gnarled trees and all they’ve seen.

The difference in my thinking is that I’ve realized that no one thing can be everything, no matter how much I love the activity.

Because: In-between atoms, what is there?  In-between the protons and electrons and neutrons, what is there?

There’s a whole lot of nothing, with everything floating, colliding, meandering.

And that, I’ve realized, is where I like to be: In the ‘nothing.’  

The past, the present are somewhere in all of that nothing, all of my feelings and all of yours and everyone else’s, too.  There’s an endless supply of possibilities… maybe not everything you or I would wish to be, and most certainly some things we don’t favor, but plenty that we do, or might, or could.

Right now, between us, there’s not much.  There’s our past, but I’m not really holding onto it anymore.  I daresay there’s nothing between us, except perhaps my love for you (which may or may not reach you) and whatever you feel for me (which may or may not reach me).

And I’m okay with that nothing.  I can sit very peacefully in nothing, having spent a lot of time in it, listening to the cacophony of guilt and accusations and suppositions and wishes and dreams racing through my head.  Having let it be, having remained doing nothing, being nothing, I can listen to a whole lot of things.  I can remember nearly anything I want; I can look and examine the past or the present, or dream about and even try to plan the future.

I start to realize that the only reason I wanted you with me, the reason I wanted to see you again, the reason I wanted to re-start our “something” was because I was so desperately afraid of the nothing.  I was afraid it would consume me, my feelings, my everything.  

Us.  

And you.

But: There’s nothing between us now, and it’s not consuming what we were.

There’s nothing between us now, and it’s apparently not consuming you.

There’s nothing between us now and I still love, can still love you.  And I still do.

There’s nothing between us now…

And you’re still you.

And, better still (because it matters so much to me, and in me is all of what I love, including you and us):

There’s nothing between us now.  

And I’m still me, too.

Photo ©2007 MLM

Listen, if you will.

These words are the result of Nothing.

I’ve been quiet for a very long time; most recently, for the bulk of four months.

That’s not to say that I’ve been silent or that I don’t speak my mind to people, nor that I’ve been completely isolated of people.  I’m not repressed in my thoughts or feelings (though I do sometimes withhold or choose to express only certain thoughts and feelings).

Lawn Chairs on the Farm

But, by the nature of the way I am, and by circumstance of where I live, I am silent, alone with myself and my thoughts, my memories, my perceptions, the tides of my feelings for nearly nineteen out of twenty-four hours on weekdays, maybe twelve hours on weekends.  I bask in the dreams my mind concocts at night, consider which of the dreams I concoct during the day that I want to follow; I watch, with peaceful habit when I’ve thought too much, the tall trees brushed by invisible gusts and breezes; I listen, my mind aching and yearning for adventure, to planes from near or far flying over this quiet tract of land, to the repetitive birdsong of my contented woodland neighbors who put my mind at ease.

Of course, in this well-connected and media-driven world, there are always ways to reach out, across the Atlantic and back to my home to communicate with my parents, my friends.  There are always ways to distract my mind when it becomes too full of worry, of dismay at the stillness I now live after so many years of trial and turmoil — never mind that stillness is what I sought, never mind that a deep peace was what I need.  When the ghosts in my mind start screaming that I’m not doing enough, that I need to meet people, that I need to have some kind of adventure; when I can’t convince my body-and-soul to listen anymore to the quiet in the woods that I nevertheless always love; when writing and coloring and doodling is too frustratingly unsatisfying, I watch for hours and days some soul-wrenching series on a widescreen TV, a luxury I’ve not taken for much of my life.

It’s the stories that keep me, the well-written screenplays exploring gangsters’ lives in the 1930s, creative genii inventing worlds and monsters in believable and unbelievable ways to pull viewers in and make us look over our shoulders in fear at night.

I watch them with a passion, with a thirst for adventure that doesn’t exist in this phase of my life, with gratitude that, when my mind is filled with too much danger or fantasy or incredulity, I have complete control to turn it off with the press of a button and set the stories aside to embrace, again, the cool breezes playing with palm fronds and shimmering leaves or the languid, grey days.

This is the therapy I give myself daily, for months, as I ease myself into the truly-peaceful life I feel is mine.

Shefford Victorian Sea

Finally, it is hot in a way that is familiar to my Southern-born skin.  My mind pulls out long-ago-formed dreams of lazy walks on remote beaches under tall palm trees, of owning and creating a retreat so thoroughly, intoxicatingly relaxing that those who visit are changed while there, are converted to peace and beauty even after they leave, become so completely the antithesis of stress and commonplace angst that they change the world in the wake of their everyday lives.

I know this has been the dream of people, in various forms, through many ages; that even the hippies in my parents’ day were ultimately after this goal:  to spread peace and love.  It is the goal of many, even today, through so many venues of spiritualism and activism….

When I was a child, I watched and loved Fantasy Island.  It was, to me, the most beautiful dream of a place where people went to live out their fantasies, where real magic happened and people left utterly changed for the better.  My mind always wandered into reality and wished, hoped for, wondered where this place was in the world… wondered how one would create such a fantastical place.

I still don’t know how to create the place of my dreams such that others can enjoy it, can walk away changed from being in it… but I am certain that is what I am working on, more than any single piece of writing, more than visiting any single land, more than meeting any single culture of people, more than any single love affair.

River Fireworks

I didn’t leave “to travel,” and I always knew it, even before I left Atlanta five months ago.  I didn’t go to “see the sights,” to visit museums, to wander through cities — even if I love doing so.  I came to Europe to find peace, to find myself again, to get lost wherever I was in ways I’ve not been lost before – since that is the best way I have found to face the demons I’ve carried with me, and to make peace with them again.

I came here to be terrified of being alone, and, through that terror, to remember that I’m most well when I’m alone.

I came here to feel morbidly unloved, and, through that desolation, to love myself and let myself be loved.

I came here to be bereft of everything, to have utterly nothing but the clothes in my bags, to find that nearly everything I owned was of no use to me – even most of my clothing, my computer, my iPhone and all of my apps, my pencils and pens and coloring books, my notebooks and fountain pens and the gifts others gave me… none of it satisfied me; none of it fit.  I came here to discover that I am more well in myself, whatever size or weight I am, whatever little I was creating, whatever temperament I was in, however many days I thought I was wasting, however few people I had close to me…

I came here to learn what I always knew and forget, sometimes.

I came here to fall in love with myself again.

You know those people who you see and just fall in love with them, instantly?  That boy or girl who is just so fantastically beautiful, who moves in ways that mesmerize, whose smile is so charmingly profound that seeing it sends you into fantasies – whether the smile is directed at you or elsewhere?  You know those people whose faces you can see in your mind, whether your eyes are open or closed, to whom you feel connected even if you’ve only spoken a few times?

Filly Newborn

You know those people you fantasize about, who are larger-than-life… or sometimes just small enough that you want to put them in your pocket and carry them with you everywhere, like a totem that you can pull out whenever you’re unsure or alone or sad or frightened that will instantly make you smarter, brighter, happier, braver, more alive?

Everyone has them, I think.  And it hardly matters if they are as wonderful as we see them, as we imagine; it hardly matters if they love us or don’t know we exist.  They’re like angels, like fairies, like imaginary friends, and they make everything, everything better.

Well…

Imagine…

If that person…

Was you.

I don’t mean:  Imagine you were that person for someone else.  No doubt you are, for someone.  Knowing you are might even make life harder for you, for you undoubtedly feel you are not worthy of such adoration, and you might feel you now have to work harder to be the person you’re expected to be… and those expectations are sometimes unreasonable.  Unbearable.

I mean:

Imagine if you felt, knew, believed in and saw yourself as that fantastically-inspirational love.

This is not a pep-talk.  Such pep-talks rarely work, I have found.

What it is, is a suggestion.

Jordan's Mill Flower

Because, what I have found through loving many, many people in such bright-and-beautiful ways, in holding them as the ultimate prize, in adoring them with fantastical ecstasy, in giving them the position of muse and profound inspiration…

And finding that they yet hold themselves accountable for countless things, despite their successes or failings…

What I have found in being rejected countless times, in having my gushing adoration refused and ignored and placated and even sometimes accepted for a time…

Is this:

No matter how many people I love.

No matter how many people I adore.

No matter to how many people I give myself and all of my talents and passions and skills and knowledge.

No matter what I do.

Every single person I love is a reflection, in the most profoundly simple way, of me…

of what I love…

of what I do and can do…

of what I enjoy and can enjoy…

of the way I am with others and how I’m seen with others…

exactly as beautiful and quirky and broken and together…

as old and young, as spirited and complacent…

as kind and as cruel.

I am drawn, over and over and over again, exactly to me.

So, you know that person who you hold so magically beautiful that you cry when you can’t have them, when you sob because you’ve been rejected, when you ache to have them near?

That person

is

YOU.

And that’s the trick to never being alone, to doing nothing at all or all kinds of things.  That’s the trick to everything.

We’re just looking in a mirror, talking to ourselves, seeing and sharing the beauty in everything.

That is me.

Farm Rainbow

Tempted to the Realm of Woodland Sprites

I finally went for that walk I wanted to take around the back side of the stream. It felt good being in my flip-flops and tank top, even with the nettle plants and thick overgrowth. I needed it more than I realized, far more than I gave it credit – even if I coughed raucously as I walked, death rattles of this persistent sinus infection.

It was beautiful. The tufts of flowers sprayed poofs of pollen on my black top and pants as my feet stepped on dark earth, stepped over and around tall, green stalks of small purple and pink flowers that bees fancied so much, I talking to my flying friends in warning so as not to startle them into stinging me. I felt like Alice, wandering through giant gardens….

It was curious, too: here and there were large patches of growth that something – some animal or erratic person – had smashed down to the ground and trampled more in some places, less in others. I kept wondering if it was a deer or a fox… But it couldn’t have been a deer, for the patches would have been deeper; and I would think that foxes would be more spindly than to make such messes of the flowers. It hardly makes sense, too, for any human to have knocked down the growth along the sides of the path, as opposed to on the path. As a matter of fact, nothing showed that anyone human had been on that part of the footpath in a while, the overgrowth was so tall and thick throughout.

And the stream rushed by, no further than ten feet to my left, the only live body of water in my regular vicinity since I left Greece and the Aegean Sea a few months ago….

…I still miss the sea, the ancient beaches of stones smoothed by millennia of gentle waves caressing the rough edges away, beaches where it was easy to bask in a warm sun’s rays and cool my tanned skin in cold, crystal-clear salt water, where the luxury of nature made it so easy to understand how volumes of art, wisdom, beauty once came of the inhabitants there.

But I had left the sea to return here to England, where my heart had left loves, where I was not nearly finished exploring my own country’s motherland….

Of course I was mad – not because I wasn’t at the sea, but because… well, because I didn’t feel free. And my mind kept going back to all of the reasons I was mad; but the tall, flowering greens kept my attention, and I needed my wits to avoid the nettles and other spiny plants growing on the path. Even so, my bare ankle brushed one nettle plant and my forearm brushed another – I was only caught the two times, and the red welts are now already tiny marks on my skin that sting but a little, reminding me in an oddly-pleasant way of both the anger and the beauty of my forage along this infrequently-trodden path.

…And then it started to rain in light, sparse sprinkles (though no one here calls it “sprinkling,” and I’ve infused the term into my Englishman’s language as something lovely and akin to colored sugar sprinkles falling from the sky). The rain cooled my skin, warmed from the heavy walk; and I wanted to sit somewhere in the falling water to watch the greater, speeding waters flow past, burbling to no one in particular about its journey and days….

And then the path cleared, went on, over an unexpected concrete bridge where the stream was wider and flowing quite fast and deep. Perhaps I’d take off my beach shoes, damp with dew and yesterday’s rains, and sit for a bit….

It was a fleeting thought, though; the movement of my feet and body through so much green was closer to what I needed, and so much the stronger urge.

The path followed closer to farmlands, edged with old trees and tall grasses that showed this part wasn’t used very often, either.  I couldn’t tell if I would wind up walking all the way into town or to the gates I had seen before, on the other side of the stream….

I didn’t really want to go ‘home’, and my mind raced with reasons why I should:  what if the door was locked when I returned? What if I got caught in a heavier rain? The legs of my cotton pants were already swinging heavily with the dampness they had picked up in the thick, and I was still recovering from this illness….

It didn’t work so well as I would have wanted to erase the pain of the evening’s madness, and my mind rang with the article about wisdom of that Greek ancient, Hippocrates, of walking until one’s mood has improved — and if, by the time one has ended one’s walk, it has not improved, to walk some more.

I could have walked all day before my heart found peace, I think.

And, even as I reached the long, granite-graveled lane, even as I stepped into the hot shower, I knew my heart needed me to walk some more.

For, as terrifying as it was to risk being stung by plants and insects, as cold as I am sure I would have become had I been caught in a storm, it was safe, too, to be amidst other natural things that grow strong and tenderly, that brushed my body in gentle-if-sometimes-painful caresses as I wandered down an unknown path in a foreign land that feels yet not unknown; and some part of me wanted, with each patch of pressed-down foliage, to sit and stay and watch the bees and dragonflies and butterflies and wasps and other flying things, to see snails carrying curling shells up spindly stems, to wonder at the huge, black slugs and other crawling things beneath my feet… to lose myself deep in the green, as quiet and unbroken as a woodland faerie, lost from any who would not be as natural and free with themselves, who would query and misunderstand my eager return to my own nature and freedom… who won’t let themselves be, and cannot, therefore, truly let anyone be.

The Elusive Poetry of a Misty English Evening

The sky is white-grey in a way I’ve never seen before, except in movies.  It mingles with the silence of this farm in a blanket that feels warm, embracing, romantic, especially as the birds are not yet asleep; and their high-pitched calls to each other embellish this scene like golden-threaded embroidery.

I’m in England again.

I could sit and stare for hours at this line of trees along the path to the road, especially in this light:  They and the birds and the tiny black bugs stand out in fragile, muted silhouette against the empty canvas of the sky; a living tableaux, displayed perfectly by the thick, black window frames.

I step back for a moment, in my mind, and realize that the architect must have planned this out, must have known these vast days and nights would be made more picturesque by four panes framed like this.  He must be humble, to create such a thing that lends one not to appreciate the window, but the beauty beyond….

And my eye is drawn back to the white sky outside and that line of trees that barely move in this quiet spring rain.

I am a fool to think that anyone else can live like this; and I have been told often enough by friends, lovers, enemies that I am different, that I see and live the world differently; and I always protest.  But the reality comes now, as I sit inside a tiny renovated barn at a table that is not mine and behold a scene that could only belong to me in happenstance, an accidental gift from a man who profoundly cares for me – and whom I can barely even consider in this moment because of the profound feeling of wonder I have for nothing more than those unmoving, dark, spindly lines on that infinite grey-white backdrop inside obsidian frames…!

I could suggest that others come to England and behold the beauty of the rolling hills from which, in mornings, mists arise and hover with sweet-scented grace beyond the city of London – mists and hills and scents that inspired poets and authors and painters to create what sedentary city-people the world over can only faintly imagine.  Those things, only hours beyond London’s borders, are accessible to all, if one leaves the city early enough and drives down the well-kept expressways or through tight country lanes that curve in their own ambling ways through multitudinous old villages – where “old” does not even begin to connote what we Americans understand of the word; where thatched roofs atop buildings of centuries-old-brick are yet commonplace antiquities to residents and wondrous novelties to those youthful, pridefully-modern eyes that come, and look, and see.

I could beg of travelers to make friends of locals, as I have and do, and spend time in out-of-the-way towns and villages and shires that hold nothing apparent, which even the English beyond this area ridicule, that I visit for the sake of love and friendship and a quiet kind of adventure that I love dearly.  I fancy that I forage for adventure here – even though I see it all around me in the lingering sunrises and sunsets that last for hours, in the rich, upturned soil beyond the nearby fence, in the stream beyond this barn and the horses and their riders meandering by; in the owner of this farm whose friendship I’ve already earned with nothing more than my honest openness, quick smile, and a genuine interest in his work, his land, his barn.

I could suggest that friends and loved-ones let their hearts take them where they may – even walking barefoot into stinging nettles on chilly days and through soothing, soft, black clods of not-quite-mud; along horse-trod paths where long, silken grasses grow just beyond the reach of nearby thoroughbreds that one mustn’t touch.  I could suggest that those who read this befriend and ingratiate themselves to someone with whom they mysteriously connect, and offer everything beautiful they have to give, that they may find what their heart yearns for….

Except that I’m told, over-and-over, that I am different; that no one does this.

And, I guess, it’s true.

Because:  who will make themselves so vulnerable, so exposed, so fragile as to not know what will happen from day to day?  Who will let themselves live in a moment so completely that every moment before and after threatens to crush one’s mind with power and complexity and fullness that comes in nearly-certain waves of uncertainty?

I know very few.

So:  I can write and tell of these beauties I see.  I can tell true tales of love, of a white sky opening, finally, with the faintest hint of blue to let the clouds beyond display themselves for a moment before fading altogether, this evening, into a single sheet of translucent grey-blue.

But I cannot suggest that anyone attempt to live or duplicate this life… for it is, and it remains, uniquely mine.

Romanced by the Motherland

It’s not supposed to be this sunny in England, this often.  Even today, the weather report on my phone promises mostly clouds and a 50% chance of rain in six minutes… and, while I see the clouds steadily marching in, the sun persists.

It’s not warm, by any stretch of the imagination. The wind blows in strong, cool gusts that tease the fronds of grass along the fence-line in the exact way I tease my love’s hair, brushing it again-and-again the wrong way, just to watch it fall back into place.

And the rain finally comes, half-an-hour late, streaming in insistent beats from a now-grey-white sky, as if to tell me it will do as it wants and the sun may not have my full attention; as if to tell me that even the sky happily indulges my Englishman’s and my playful tales of his power to bring the elusive, illustrious rains for my pleasure; of my power to bring the sun to this usually-cloudy land after captivating Helios’ affections while in Greece until a week ago.

It rains in sideways-streams as my darling drives down the long, gravel path from the road, past the horses and the dark, upturned soil just beyond the beautiful barn reno that he — that we live in.

It’s somewhat stunning to realize that I’m living here as much as he, and sometimes living here more, since he drives off to work in the mornings and home in the evenings, while I actually live here all day when he’s gone.

I wandered away from the house for the first time since I arrived at this lovely country home a couple hours north of London and incidentally met the landlord as I walked along the horse-path next to a pretty little stream bordering the property.  The silver-haired man drove up in his red car with three dogs inside, stopped beside me and stepped out of the wrong side of the car to gently-but-firmly ask who I was.  I smiled, as I always do, and explained that I’m staying at the loft with his tenant; I saw his clear and lively blue eyes shine back at me as his own smile broke across a beautiful, weathered face.

We got on immediately. He teased me in a way that I believed was earnest (for a moment) about my “awful color” – the bronzed skin that I brought back from Greece that contrasts starkly with that of this Englishman, whose pale skin betrays the normally-cloudy-and-cool conditions that keep most residents well-covered.  While in London a month ago, I stood out because of my wild, merry eyes and quick smile; I now stand out even more starkly with the mark of the sun god on my skin and gold-streaked hair.

We chatted for a while as his daughter’s black-and-white springer spaniel ran to the chase the ducks and fowl near the stream, impressing me with a confident, gently-firm manner he must have learned over many years and with many animals.  Every moment I spent with this farmer made me like him more.  My mind delighted in his wit and charm as we chatted; and he explained to me that the people in his village would be more likely to converse with me than those folks I might meet in London.

I’ve since been queried harshly by other Englanders on social media as to why I would spend time in Bedfordshire – which seems a silly question to me, as here is where my heart finds itself well-cared-for and extremely happy and restful on this quiet farm with a man I fell in love with years ago.  Adventure is dictated by one’s nature, I think; and I had plenty of adventures in Greece that would fit many people’s definition of the word; while here, on an out-of-the-way horse farm within walking distance of a small village, I find the kind I most enjoy: Discovering myself, taking long walks and making strong connections with random strangers, and falling in love.

I haven’t yet found that the citizens of Clifton are very chatty; but I’ve only walked around the town twice and only once spoke to locals at the butcher’s while picking up a bit of fresh produce.  While it is obvious that my American accent is quite a novelty here, I do best when I’m with my Englishman:  People catch some part of our lighthearted banter and, seeing a curious look in their eyes, I include him or her in our conversation.  Perhaps if I was to take some time in a pub….

Whatever the case, I was tickled by the landlord, that gentleman-farmer who stood before me in red coveralls, obviously as charmed by my wildly-American, childish openness as I was charmed by his display of English breeding that flirts ever-so-gently with impropriety without ever crossing the line.

And I am charmed by this land, by the gorgeous cobalt clouds laden now with rain, highlighted by the hidden sun.  I love this quiet life where, once-upon-a-time, artists like Jane Austin and Vincent Van Gogh were inspired to create their individual masterpieces of love; where the active mind can rest and find itself joyful in the tiniest of things: In flickering blades of grass and gentle horses and proud-but-nervous pheasants.

And, though I love the city of London, I would rather inspire Americans to come to the countryside, where our childishness is cherished, where our naivety finds a welcome home – if we are open and honest; where our busy and hard-working souls can find respite in the arms of our motherland — one that knows us, in paradoxical truth, better and as distantly as any mother may.

 

I’m not running away from anything, I’m running towards. I’m running towards love, towards things larger than life. I’m not running away from my problems, I’m simply leaving them behind, leaving them in the past. I don’t need them where I’m going.

polarioid  (via wnq-writers)

Seduction

So many mornings, I wake naked with a sheet or light quilt draped over three-quarters of my body, the wind coolly sneaking into my room and kissing my arms, shoulders and back; and I find myself half-dreaming of resting in a lover’s bed.

This morning, with the sun not as hot as yesterday, not as proddingly demanding that I leave my comfort, my dreams turned to the ocean, to a bed near the beach where similar soft breezes and gentle sunlight awakened me as tenderly as a careful love. I could remember the white sands beyond, hear the faintly crashing waves orchestrate with quietly-rustling leaves; and my body is quiveringly seduced as thoroughly as by the scent and structure and attentions of a well-attuned man.

Could it be that nature itself is calling me, beckoning me to the edges of land and foamy water? If so, I’ve felt it for years….

It’s said that youthful impressions are the strongest made; and I’m sure of it.

My first and greatest love, le mer, is calling me home.

Protector

I woke this morning to vivid, almost-awake dreams of deep, dark blue waters, of a high, hot sun, of salt air thick and lush on my nostrils, of a strong, deeply-tanned man – the owner of the long, white sailboat – preparing to dive with me.

The sense of freedom and vastness, of purpose was so clear – more clear and explicit than with any other dream or idea I have: the purpose was unspeakable, and the only way to describe it is: Life.

I find myself in the midst of the world, preparing my journey with food, beverage, music and travel across land – and yet, I find myself restless, dis-eased, anxious. Surely it is my sense of food in relation to restaurants, my sense of media in relation to television, my sense of marketing in relation to advertising; and it is hard to break through these notions.

Sailing, however, is both new and old, instinctive and primal and inventive, nakedly natural and so very human. It is demanding on physical, mental, emotional and consciousness levels; it requires an openness to the sea and to peoples and to lands – a forever learning, amidst warmth and love of the sun and wind and skies.

I do not know how I will get there; but I feel I must make start making my way to the sea, no matter what I must do or give up to do so. My skin longs for the heat of the sun, the cooling breezes, the nourishing salt water; my mind begs and prods me for the simplicity and nuances of laying hands on line.

I want to disappear into her, back to my origins, back to the sea… to be myself and protect what I love most: to be Meredith.

Sketches of the South

It’s on days like today that I understand my laziness, my hesitance to move, to do anything but bask and take in this hot Georgia sun, to await cool breezes petting my skin and dancing through my hair and through the shimmering leaves, carrying the sweetness of roses and gardenias and dying lilies and fresh-mowed grass, of simmering pine and leafy trees of deepening green, soaking up the sun as I do….

On days like this, I don’t even wish to speak, to disturb this lovely prelude to summer.  I sit and watch glistening leaves and pale petals, and listen to nothing:  tinkling wind chimes and calling birds, and the soft percussion of leaf clapping upon leaf.  Every moment of this is a vacation – with the dilettante-like luxury of never needing to go anywhere, of never wishing for escape, of never tiring of the same things:  blue skies and billowing clouds and fluffy roses.

It’s a cultural thing, I’m sure:  this laziness arising with drawled speech and meandering stories and long supper tables laden with food at small white churches and old family reunions. The Old South is alive and well in me, and in this land; and, returning to this lazy world after half my life spent no farther south than Southern Ontario, the scents and sensations and simplicity of this land are irresistible.

The trees beckon, waving full boughs to those inside, whispering songs to which no words can reply.

So I return, realizing that I always return, always wished to return to this place that breeds laziness in the most beautiful of ways.

For Sarah M.