“Poetry has no investment in anything besides openness. It’s not arguing a point. It’s creating an environment.” —Claudia Rankine

When what is happening in the world becomes too much to bear, when I am exhausted from listening to the news and feel hopeless or helpless, I often turn to poetry. When the days are dark, poetry can illuminate the darkness.

As we are all too aware, it is a difficult—to put it lightly—time in America right now, a moment that has brought ignorance and hatred to light. This hatred and ignorance has always simmered below the surface, remnants from the history of how America was built, a residue that remains ingrained in the fabric of our society today. But while Obama was our president, light was not shone on this lingering evil. There was too much progress to be made, work to be done, moments to celebrate. Now, that has changed.

Though it has changed, though what happened in Charlottesville sickens, saddens, horrifies, or enrages us (even if it doesn’t surprise some of us), we still must hold on to what we know to be true: that fascists and white supremacists are not the majority. We—people who do not hate, people who come from various backgrounds, people who seek equality and justice for all, not few—are the majority. We the people will not stand by. This is not our America.

But what surprises me is that so many people are shocked by the retaliation that happened in Charlottesville when the statue of Robert E. Lee was to come down. That people say, “This is not how America is. This is not what our country believes.” Though times have changed, though the institution of slavery is gone, it’s not over. America’s history is written in blood. The blood of Black people.

It hurts to write it, to think it, it is a reality that we all wish to sweep under the rug, but nonetheless, it is true. And in order to remove this hatred and ignorance that remains, we must acknowledge the past and our present. In order to envision and create a future that is devoid of racism, we must acknowledge racism. And one way to do this is through art.

Art is the great interpreter, the great equalizer, a mode of seeing and thinking and living that can bind us all together. We must bear witness, and art can help us witness that which we don’t wish to see, or don’t understand, or can’t articulate. Art can help us feel deeply, whether in recognition or new understanding, and art can help us heal.

I have felt this way for a long time, since I was small and started making “art” of my own—that it can heal. But as you grow older you can forget this, lose sight of it, minimize its power. But when I read Citizen: An American Lyric, by Claudia Rankine, in college, my belief in art, in words, as a way to see, was fortified. Art as a way to define, articulate, transcend. And after Charlottesville and the current president’s response, I turned to Rankine’s book of poetry again.

If you haven’t yet read Citizen, which was a National Book Award finalist in 2015 and has been featured in many independent bookstores’ displays in the wake of Charlottesville, I urge you to. Even if you don’t usually read poetry, if you feel it’s too obscure or weird or whatever; it will make you feel. Whether you identify as a woman or as a person of color or neither, it will change you. And that’s what we need right now, change. We need people seeking to feel, not to desensitize (tempting as it is). We need people either seeking to understand or people articulating their experiences. We need conversations, both on and off the page, so that we may exact actions that are thoughtful, purposeful. Actions that remain peaceful yet are mighty.

Rankine’s words are powerful in times like these. She articulates the Black experience, her experience, in deeply personal yet universal terms. Her poetry is not simply for people of color. Her words are for us all. To see, to hear, to witness. You may be thinking, How does a poet translate her own personal experience into words that address everyone? That make everyone feel? Perhaps you think, Well I’m not a Black woman; how is this book for me?

Rankine compels the reader to feel both implicit and accused when reading Citizen. Throughout her poetry she uses the second person: “you.” “You” as the reader, as the speaker, and also as the spoken to. And we are all of these things. We are all living in a time where some of us, depending on the color of our skin, are in danger of being shot by the police. We are all living in a time where many of us are disadvantaged and disenfranchised because we are Black. You, whether you are Black or otherwise, are a part of the whole:

“You are you even before you

grow into understanding you

are not anyone, worthless,

not worth you.”

Is it comfortable to read this, to feel this? Of course not. But being comfortable hasn’t gotten us anywhere. And many of us don’t have the luxury of turning away from that which makes us uncomfortable. It’s when we are uncomfortable that we must seek other modes of being. The discomfort we feel when we read Citizen, or when we are simply alive in this country, is exactly what warrants examination. Why are we uncomfortable? What institutions or situations create these spaces of pain? If we turn away from asking these questions, we allow these systems that create suffering to survive.

I was an advocate for this book as soon as I read it, and now? I believe we need this book now more than ever. With a president like ours, we need books that voice what is true and real, words that mean something. Though it is difficult to acknowledge it, I will say that there is one—only one—good thing to come from this current presidency. The good that has come from this dire situation is that it has brought the hate and inequality that still exists in our country to light. When the darkness of our country remains in the dark, it festers. When we don’t talk about the remnants of the “peculiar institution” that still stain the fabric of our society, we don’t, won’t, and can’t achieve growth, change, and healing. Now that it has risen up to the surface from the depths, we must confront it.

I wish you a wild, free life.

Sonoma the Beautiful

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I’ve always considered myself lucky to live in Sonoma County. Okay, maybe not when I was in high school, when I saw the area as a podunk little town and had dreams of moving to New York City to work at a fashion magazine (cliche I know), but definitely before and after. I have always been grateful that my mom decided to raise us here, rather than LA, where my sister and I spent the beginning of our childhood because it was near our grandparents.

After moving from LA to Sonoma County when we were seven, our lives seemed to get better. Growing up, I had the privilege of running through apple orchards that were right across the street from my house, instead of playing on a confined strip of pavement that was our backyard in LA. There was fresh air and rain, beaches that were unsullied by trash, an ocean that was freezing cold but devoid of the stinky barges that seemed to congest all of the LA coastline. It was a kid’s paradise in Sonoma County, with room to roam and apples, ripe for the picking, as far as the eye could see.

Fast forward twenty or so years, and I am still here in Sonoma County, still in love with the beaches and the trees, but much has changed. Where there was once acres of apple orchards are now undulating hills of vineyards. Where there was once dirt pathways are now sidewalks. None of this sounds that bad, I know, it is merely our area becoming more populated and industrialized, but what comes along with these changes? Money.

Money is a subject I was worried about as a kid, for we never seemed to have very much of it, but in Sonoma County these worries were appeased by the richness of our surroundings. Though we might not have had much, we were immersed in a bountiful place, a place where organic food is not hard to come by, where you can meet the farmer who grew your food, where yoga and healthy living is more than a passing trend. But money has once again become a topic not only that I worry about, but that many people I know worry about.

We are worried because the place we have called home for most of our lives is now becoming a place that many of us can no longer afford. Rents and homes are priced so high it’s become unthinkable to be able to live alone. I am thirty years old and have roommates, as many of my friends do. It may seem cheap in comparison to San Francisco and Marin County, where many of the new residents here are coming from because it’s still close to the city and cheaper than where they were, but not for much longer. What was once $600 for a studio is now double that, if not more, because a select few are willing and able to pay that. Or landlords are renting out their spaces for airbnb because they can make more money and our area has become a tourist destination.

Our area is a tourist attraction because it is Wine Country, home to vineyards and wineries, nestled among redwoods and the Russian River, minutes from the beautiful Sonoma Coast; I get it, who wouldn’t want to live here? It’s beautiful, the food is outstanding, and the beauty of the natural world is everywhere. The quality of life is unparalleled. If you can afford it. It used to be that you could, that the area I call home was home to a mixture of people, hippies and realtors, migrant workers and bankers. Yes, there unfortunately isn’t the most ethnic diversity here, and a lack of exciting things — art, culture, music — to do, though that is changing, but at least a single mother on welfare could live a couple of blocks away from a children’s book author and their children could grow up playing together.

Now, whose children will grow up playing together? People who are mostly the same, whether they come from different backgrounds or not. People in the same income bracket, in the same socioeconomic situation, people who are able to send their kids to the same violin lessons and Waldorf schools. As the area becomes more expensive, it becomes less diverse, less unique, less creative. I’m not saying that the people who can afford to live here are not diverse, unique, or creative, in fact, quite the opposite. But the people who are being driven out because of skyrocketing rents have unique qualities to offer as well. Our area is losing its citizens because of a poverty beyond their control.

This poverty is happening because people are still making minimum wage, but their rents are being doubled. An unforeseen exodus is happening as the people who have always been here are being forced to sell or abandon what they’ve worked so hard to maintain because they must seek greener pastures. And not because they want to go. It’s because they have to. Because even if they do manage to scrape by, what about their children? Who wants to raise their children in a place they most likely will not be able to afford once they’ve grown up? Who wants to scrape by when another area will allow them to live with a bit of security and dignity? These are fundamental necessities for all of us, not just the rich, to live with some dignity and security.

There is a sense of shame when you can no longer make it work in a place you have always called home. This is unfair, the poverty-shaming that happens in our country. As if because you are poor or struggling it’s because you’re lazy or you’re stupid. There are all of these bullshit legends, the stories we perpetuate because it’s the marketing of the American dream: people coming from nothing and becoming millionaires. If they can do it, why can’t you? But not all of us can pull ourselves up by our bootstraps or just roll up our sleeves and get it done when the going gets tough.

When the going gets tough, some of us can’t transcend poverty for myriad reasons. Perhaps we are plagued by illness, affected by circumstances beyond our control, disenfranchised by a society that is constructed so that the cards will always be stacked against us. These are not copouts, these are realities. So what then? What now?

I cling to the hope that what goes up, must come down, but I just don’t know. I am lucky because I am making it by, but for how long? What if my rent doubles? Or not if, when? As I see more and more of the people whom I hold dear leaving the state or the area, who are packing it up because they can no longer live here, I am saddened and frankly, I am pissed off.

I am sad to see my friends go, and I am pissed off because who wants to live in a place devoid of character? And that’s what happens when only one “type” of person can stay and the rest must leave. Character is out the door. The character a place gets when it is home to different backgrounds, viewpoints, opinions, ideas, creations, contributions — that’s the kind of place I want to live in and that’s the very kind of place that is on its way to becoming extinct.

I recently discovered that I will most likely lose more people I hold dear. It looks like in the next year or so I might lose my own family, because they want room to raise their kids and schools that don’t cost a fortune and diversity for their kids to grow up around. I might lose my mom to another state because she still has to work even though she’s retired. And then it will just be me, surrounded by beauty, with access to the best quality food, but without my family. And really, what is a beautiful place and delicious food if you can’t experience them with the people you love?

I wish you a wild, free (and affordable) life.

In times of upheaval, community is paramount. I’d love to hear your thoughts, opinions, ideas. Please leave a comment if you feel inclined. ❤


A recent window of perspective
Sometimes we receive a reminder of the lives we used to lead, and usually when we least expect it. Sometimes this reminder can be painful, and sometimes it can also be a bit of a relief. Sometimes both. Reminders usually grant us a bit of perspective, which can be hard to gain otherwise. Because the whole saying, Out of sight, out of mind, can be true to an extent. I try to be aware of what I am feeling, but sometimes we don’t even know what we’re feeling. And then we receive a reminder.

Though it hasn’t been a year yet, I actually forget sometimes how much my life has changed since the beginning of August, how only a short while ago I was leading an entirely different kind of existence. Yes, in my old life of less than a year ago I had already given up booze, but I was still living a different kind of life. When you’re living a new life, you’re in it, living it, and don’t have much time to reflect. I don’t know if this is good or bad. I keep trying to find the balance between reflection and living.

Perhaps I should sit with my feelings a bit more, instead of always charging full speed ahead, but I don’t want to sit around brooding over what I have “lost.” But I also don’t want to pretend that my old life never existed, because it all serves a purpose. This past weekend I received a reminder of my old life, of how things used to be. You see, I saw my ex-boyfriend, out of nowhere, and it threw me for a loop a little bit.

Though I am happy in my new life, though with time and some perspective I can honestly say that I wouldn’t change how anything went down last year, I was thrown when he walked into the restaurant where I used to work. Where I was having dinner with my new boyfriend. The two hadn’t met before. I hadn’t seen my ex since Christmas. Needless to say, my heart dropped. Um, could a more awkward scenario be imagined? I think not. But it was bound to happen sooner or later, in this small town where I live. I guess then was a good a time as any. I just wasn’t prepared, not at all. I guess we never are.

Seeing my ex-boyfriend as I sat beside my new one was something I hadn’t foreseen happening, at least not anytime soon, and it rattled me. How did one behave in such a situation? How do you respect all parties involved? I won’t go into the details out of respect for all parties involved, but I will say that these reminders usually occur when we need to be granted some perspective. To be reminded that things work out as they should, and that if you ask for what you truly need, you will most likely receive it, in one form or another.

I can’t disregard or forget the twelve years I spent, off-and-on, with this other person, nor do I want to, not really. Twelve years is a long time. But I also can’t, and don’t want to, relive old memories all the time. What is the in-between of forgetting and remembering? I don’t really have the answer… maybe feeling? Being present? Being in the moment, taking the time to honor what you’re feeling in that moment, and continuing on. That’s all of us can do, really, is try to be present and to continue living.

My life has changed so much since my past relationship ended, and not just because that time in my life came to an end. I have a new job, new experiences, new people, new life. I know I will always cherish that time, but I also value this new time, this new life. I will attempt to do both, and will try not to live in the past and to not be consumed by the future. To be. But I believe I received a reminder this past weekend for a reason. To continue on, but to also remember. Because that old life happened, just as this new one is happening, and all of it is intertwined, bringing me to where I am, here, now.

I wish you a wild, free life.



It’s that time of year when we all (hopefully) take a moment to think about all we are grateful for. It’s a time of year when we pause and take stock of what brings a smile to our face, what gives us sustenance in one form or another, what keeps us going. I hope that we all came up with many things to be thankful for. I hope that we not only recognized, but truly appreciated, all that has been bestowed upon us.

I wish that we did this more than once a year, and perhaps some of us do, but I know that I don’t. I do go through spurts of appreciation, moments of gratitude. I try to look on the bright side, to see the silver lining. This isn’t always possible, but I know that it is possible to focus our attention on what matters more than what doesn’t. This long weekend reminded me of this, to focus my attention on the present, to hone in on the brightness and the light.

Though I don’t want kids (which many of you know; or you can read about it here), they are a great reminder to be present, to laugh and play, to just simply stand in wonder. Spending time with my niece and nephew on Thanksgiving reminded me of this, of the simple beauty in this world. These two little people gave me pause, made me stop and think about not only how miraculous they are, but how miraculous life in and of itself is.

It’s miraculous that my one-year-old niece says “Auntie” and “Love you” now. It’s miraculous how funny my three-year-old nephew is. They just say whatever it is that’s on their minds. They are kind, crazy, sweet. I could listen to them all day. They both have so much personality, so much curiosity and wonder for the world. Their wonder revives my own, shifts my perspective, gives me clarity. The simple fact that we are here is wonder enough, not to mention that I get to be an auntie to these little humans, these pockets of giggles and tears.

Not only do I get to be an auntie, but I also get to be a sister and a daughter. As we held hands around the table to give thanks, I looked around me and smiled. My sister, who makes me so very proud, who makes me want to be a better person, was on my left. My brother-in-law, who works so hard to provide for his family, and his son, the class president at his school, to my right. My niece chatting with herself in her highchair beside my sister. Laughter coming from the living room where my mom, who reminds me to pursue my passions, who has always placed value in language and art, was playing with my nephew. I was so grateful.

The wonder of it all continued to strike me after my day with my family. The day after Thanksgiving I did yoga in my living room in the morning light before going out to the coast with a friend. The drive was beautiful, winding wet roads and rolling green hills. Redwood trees and glimmering water. I remarked how amazing it is that we live in a place this gorgeous. After we parked we got coffee and sat outside amid the frigid beauty, the water glinting silver and gray, black birds hopping across the lush wet grass. When it got too cold we went back inside the cafe to find a corner where we could continue talking.

We talked about life and death, friendship and loss, relationships, school, family. I had never spoken with this friend in this way before; we had never really had the opportunity to talk as we did in that moment, just the two of us. It was a moment. A moment where I paused and was grateful. I was grateful for the warmth of the cafe, the coffee I was drinking, the company of this friend I suddenly knew. I felt like she let me know her more than before, and I appreciated it. She reminded me that vulnerability is a kind of strength.

Then yesterday I found myself pausing in another moment of gratitude. I was thankful for a different friend of mine, and not just because she cooked me breakfast and drove us to San Francisco (she’s amazing). I was grateful for her no-nonsense sweetness, how she does not mince words but is still inherently thoughtful. I was thankful for her companionship and our friendship, which has just grown and grown over the years. She’s the kind of friend where you can sit without talking and it’s not awkward. That’s pretty rare. I appreciated how opinionated she is without being rude; she knows who she is and what she likes and doesn’t like and will let you know. She reminded me of the beauty in just being yourself.

There is beauty in just being yourself, in being vulnerable, in being childlike with wonder. Some may see these actions as weak, but I know that these actions make you more resilient. If you are fully yourself, you become your own anchor in a chaotic sea. If you are vulnerable, you create stronger relationships, including with yourself. If you are silly with glee, you make the world a brighter place to live. I am grateful for these actions. And I am even more grateful for the friends and family who remind me of this, of the brightness and the light.

I wish you a wild, free life.

Dark Days


“I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality… I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.

– Martin Luther King, Jr.

Dark days lie ahead. It is a time of uncertainty. A time of disbelief, shock, confusion, disappointment. It is a time I did not see coming. Perhaps I was naive, but my faith in humanity prevented me from believing this moment would come. A moment where a bigoted, racist, sexist, homophobic man would become the president of the United States. I thought we had come further than this. I thought we had come further as Americans, humans, people. We are all people. So why would we elect someone who denigrates and separates people? Us?

I know that it is very easy to say we are all one and the same, that we should all be able to get along. I know that we are the same as human beings but that we all have different backgrounds, experiences, upbringings. So why not learn about one another’s differences? Why not seek to understand what we can’t comprehend? Instead of shunning or shutting out, why can’t we ask and aim to be open?

We are frightened of what we don’t understand. So I would say, obviously, the remedy is to try to understand. Killing, dividing, hating; what does this grant us? When we see our brothers and sisters as strangers, when we see our great family as the enemy, we lose our humanity. When we let our insecurity, our fear, manifest and take control of our lives, we lose our chance to become great, to honor this bewildering, beautiful existence. We falter.

We falter as a people, as a human race, when we uphold false idols, when we take comfort in words of hate. We falter as Americans when we see ourselves reflected back in the face of a pathetic man with no morals, values, integrity. It’s not about which political party we identify with. It’s about what kind of person we identify with. It’s about what and who we stand for and behind. It’s about supporting a campaign of disrespect and disregard rather than honor and inclusion. It’s about hate.

My heart is breaking that my fellow Americans, my fellow human beings, would want someone like this in a position of power. That they would agree with what he says, what he believes in. That they would find logic in the emptiness of his words and actions. I am saddened by the lack of integrity, the separatism, the shallowness. I thought more of us. I believe in open minds and open hearts, curiosity and compassion. I wanted to believe that we all did. That we still do.

My heart is breaking as a woman, as a person of color, as a hardworking citizen, as a human being. My heart is breaking as a person on this planet, a simultaneous drop in the bucket and a voice that will be heard. I am numb with the sadness of it all, I am angry, I am.

I am. I am still here, I am still breathing, my heart is still beating. I remind myself of this as I turn off the radio, as I attempt to do something, anything, than dwell on this darkness. I am here, I am alive, my voice, like your voice, matters. I will not give up, I will not despair. I will grieve, I will be angry. But then I will fight.

I will not fight with hate in my heart. I will not let hate win. I will fight with love, for love, because of love. I will even love those I do not see eye to eye with, those who believe in words of hate and madness. I will even try to love this orange man who hates so openly and freely. He hates those who are different from him, us, because he is ignorant, entitled, arrogant. His bluster does not hide the truth from me:  he has hate in his heart because he is insecure and frightened. So I will send some love his way. We could all use more if it right now.

I wish you a wild, free life.


Light in the distance

As the saying goes:  when one door closes, another door opens. Lately it does seem that way, that when a door slams closed in my face or another clicks softly closed behind me, a hidden door will suddenly spring open a moment later. When an era ends, a new era always begins. I’ve been noticing this cyclical nature of life more and more lately, the endings coinciding with the beginnings, the sadness and the joy that seems to exist on the very same plane.

Last week I didn’t write because I was at a celebration of life. One of my dear friends experienced a sudden loss in the family, a loss that rocked our group of friends deeply. We have experienced a lot of loss lately it seems. We gathered last Sunday to share our stories and honor the beloved person we all lost in our own way. It was a sad but sweet day, a day of laughter and tears, of remembrance and of looking to the future.

Then yesterday I attended a close friend’s baby shower. A celebration of life as well, only of a different variety. This celebration was a welcoming of an unknown but already loved little being. We gathered to share our favorite children’s books and honor the person whom we are all excited to meet. Last weekend was about loss, this weekend was about an addition to the family. Needless to say, the emotions have been quite varied from day to day.

How can we be so disheartened one moment and then so excited the next? How can life be so cruel and yet so kind? I suppose that’s just the nature of the beast. The sooner we (I) can accept that, the better off we will be. Life doesn’t always make sense. It rarely does. But just as it can seem cold, it can also be warm and inviting. What we don’t know, what we can never know, is how it will be from one day to the next.

How can we live with such uncertainty? The not knowing if we will lose someone so suddenly? I suppose because we must, because there is no other option. Even if we lock ourselves in our homes and turn our backs on the world, the world will keep on spinning. Even if we fiercely guard the ones we love, what we hold dear, we can still lose it all in the blink of an eye. There are no guarantees.

But you know what is guaranteed? That we will suffer heartbreak and we will also experience wild joy. We will lose it all only to start over and rebuild. Does this hurt? Like hell. But it happens and then, just when we’ve given up hope, a secret door, one that was invisible to our eyes only moments before, sighs open. Or blows wide open, compelling us to act and act quickly. We don’t know when this will happen, we can’t plan for it, we can’t hide from it.

I believe that we cannot dictate our future, that we cannot control the outcome. This does not mean that we shouldn’t try to orchestrate the life we wish to see, not by any means. But it does mean that when things don’t make sense, when we’re mired down, the only way out is to feel the fear and surrender to the experience. Surrendering not in the sense of giving up, but of relinquishing some of our white-knuckled attempt to control everything. The harder we bear down, the tighter we clutch and grasp, the more likely we are to miss the secret doors whispering open. The more we try to make sense of what is right in front of us, the less we are able to see the light off in the distance. 

I’ve been sad and blindsided by my friend’s loss, by what life has thrown my way. But I have also been excited for the impending birth of a new person, created by two lovely people I am happy to know. I’ve been stressed and overwhelmed with tackling all of the aspects of my new life, but I’ve also been exhilarated and renewed. I just have to ride the wave, I guess. I  have to trust that it will all turn out how it is supposed to. Life very rarely makes sense, but man, is it a beautiful, wild ride nonetheless.

I wish you a wild, free life.



I started writing today and abandoned the draft. I probably won’t finish it. It didn’t feel… real.

I’m having an off day, where the past and the future are looming on either side of me, where it’s difficult to sit in the present moment and just be. What is authentic:  today I am down with a head cold and feeling listless. It doesn’t help that I went out this weekend, that I stayed up late and ate food that’s not the best for me. In the moment it was worth it, to be with friends and feel like I was a part of the world. But today I am tired.

I see that though I have been having fun, I have been trying to distract myself. Distract myself from the waves of awareness:  my relationship is over. My new life, the life I have been working the past five years for, has begun. The low and the high, in stark relief, can be overwhelming at times. To not be able to share the excitement with the one person who knows how hard I’ve worked for it is strange. To miss the person when you just want to be angry is hard. But everything has an end. Just as everything has a beginning.

Thinking about this today, feeling sick and a little glum, prompted me to find and re-read a poem that has been with me for a long time. My mother shared this book of poetry with me years ago called Picnic, Lighting, by Billy Collins. Though I don’t remember many of the other poems, this specific one has seemed to accompany me on my many journeys, through my trying moments and my hard days. It’s just so… honest, sad, beautiful. It’s like life. I thought it appropriate to share it today.

Rather than write more when I am feeling depleted, rather than slap something together because I feel like I should, I would prefer to send something out into the void that has beauty and meaning. That has soothed my soul by reminding me, in a beautiful, truthful way, that everything ends. That it’s okay that everything ends. That life is cyclical, wondrous, unadulterated even amongst the confusion and the grime. I hope it is a balm for you, as well.


by Billy Collins


This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.

This is the middle.
Things have had time to get complicated,
messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore.
Cities have sprouted up along the rivers
teeming with people at cross-purposes—
a million schemes, a million wild looks.
Disappointment unshoulders his knapsack
here and pitches his ragged tent.
This is the sticky part where the plot congeals,
where the action suddenly reverses
or swerves off in an outrageous direction.
Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph
to why Miriam does not want Edward’s child.
Someone hides a letter under a pillow.
Here the aria rises to a pitch,
a song of betrayal, salted with revenge.
And the climbing party is stuck on a ledge
halfway up the mountain.
This is the bridge, the painful modulation.
This is the thick of things.
So much is crowded into the middle—
the guitars of Spain, piles of ripe avocados,
Russian uniforms, noisy parties,
lakeside kisses, arguments heard through a wall—
too much to name, too much to think about.

And this is the end,
the car running out of road,
the river losing its name in an ocean,
the long nose of the photographed horse
touching the white electronic line.
This is the colophon, the last elephant in the parade,
the empty wheelchair,
and pigeons floating down in the evening.
Here the stage is littered with bodies,
the narrator leads the characters to their cells,
and the climbers are in their graves.
It is me hitting the period
and you closing the book.
It is Sylvia Plath in the kitchen
and St. Clement with an anchor around his neck.
This is the final bit
thinning away to nothing.
This is the end, according to Aristotle,
what we have all been waiting for,
what everything comes down to,
the destination we cannot help imagining,
a streak of light in the sky,
a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves.

I wish you a wild, free life.




It’s been awhile. Been awhile since I sat down to write my weekly post. Been awhile since I began the process of living a wild, free life. It’s been quite the journey since I started writing this blog a year ago (almost exactly!). I have changed my life in numerous ways, thought I had it all figured out (now I know that we never do), only to start again once more. I haven’t written because I’ve been adjusting to my new life, lifestyle, career, home, experiences. I haven’t written because I have had to allow myself the space and time to rediscover how I wish to be in this world.

When I began my journey of aiming to live a wilder, freer life, I opened myself up in a way I never had before. Not only through sharing my experiences here, but also out in the world. I slowly but surely began to break down many walls that I hadn’t even known existed. I shed an old skin and began to fill out a new one, to grow into a different kind of person. Though I was and remain the same at my core, I became a person who forged connections with myself and others, where before I had shied away from them.

I do not regret this transformation, this opening up and expanding; I welcomed it then as a new way to be, and I have much appreciation for it now. My growth allowed me to gain more than I have lost. But now, now that I have experienced the recent and blindsiding experience of losing all that I thought I would have forever, I find that I am retracting slightly.

These past two weeks of not writing, I have found myself once again shifting and changing shape. My arms and mind are open, but I find that my heart is another story. I am not closing myself off from the world like I have been known to do in the past, but I seem to have built a structure around the tenderest part of me. Not necessarily a wall… perhaps more of a partition.

This partition is not to keep people out, but to keep myself protected. I know we get hurt in this life, it’s unavoidable, but I also know now that I can keep some of my heart to myself, for myself. I have bounded from one end of the spectrum to the other, from closed to wide open, and now I seem to be settling somewhere in the middle. It feels… right.

I was so excited about the seemingly endless possibilities that appeared when I started my new way of living that I can see, in hindsight, I got swept up. I didn’t realize that my willingness to be vulnerable would not always be reciprocated by those closest to me. I didn’t embrace the idea that I could and can be in collaboration with the world while still being my sarcastic, skeptical self. I can wish to believe but still question, I can maintain a spiritual practice and still read trashy magazines. I don’t have to become a yoga teacher or go to an ashram for a month to live truthfully.

I can see that the events that have led me to here, to this moment, have coincided to bring me more awareness. While before I thought I was completely aware, I know that I am more conscious now. I have been brought back down to earth. I did not welcome this descension, the thud and the pain that accompanies such a fall, but I am grateful for it now.

I have always considered myself a grounded person, practical and pragmatic, almost to a fault. My practicality limited me in a way for some time, preventing me from believing in alternate routes that I could take. Luckily, when I removed my old blocks from view I started to see that there’s more out there. But somewhere along the way of living with more freedom, more abandon, I got a little lost. I disdained the ideas of having security or stability, I disregarded my intuition, telling myself that everything would work out, that it always does. I felt that to truly live wild and free, I wouldn’t work a “traditional” job or live a “traditional” life. This was an error on my part.

My error led me to being too caught up in potentials, in appearances, than concerning myself with what was and always has been inside. Whether I work a traditional job or not, I am me. Whether I am in a relationship or not, I am me. And me, myself, is someone who deserves to be taken care of, by me and me alone, at least for now. I made the mistake of trusting too much in others. I made the mistake of linking awareness with a path that doesn’t seem to fit.

Don’t get me wrong, I will keep the faith and the trust, but on a more pragmatic scale. I will trust myself first and foremost. I will remember that I can live truthfully and freely while working a 9-5. I will not beat myself up if I say something that Gandhi wouldn’t approve of. I am human, frail but also much stronger than I give myself credit for. Flawed yet determined. Sweet and sour. Bratty and kind. I am not perfect and I never will be.

What matters is that I am trying. Trying to be more than a sleepwalker, someone who just floats through life, who lets life happen to them. Trying to live openly and authentically. Trying to rearrange and realign, to pick myself back up after I stumble. Trying to protect myself while I continue to try making connections. Trying to reach for the stars with my feet planted firmly on the ground. I don’t have it all figured out, but no one does. We figure it out along the way.

I wish you a wild, free life.

The Ostrich

photo (19)
Sow seeds of love.

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

Thank god for my sister. She who knows me so well, she who is the best person I know. She has the uncanny ability of calling me out without me even knowing it. Because she knows when I need it, she knows when I am burying my head in the sand out of fear.

Though I consider myself an educated individual, I rarely watch the news. I avoid my Facebook feed when yet another tragedy has befallen the human race. I flip past magazine articles or eschew the front page of the newspaper in favor of less despairing reading. But who does that serve? Though I do this out of faulty self-preservation tactics, it does not even serve me. I look to protect myself from the weight of the world, from it all being too much, but then before I know it all I see is sand. I am an ostrich.

I was forced to pull my head out of the sand and take a look at myself after a conversation with my sister on the phone this morning. I had to take a hard look at the person I am in relation to the person I want to be. As a woman of color, as a citizen of the world, as an American, as someone who believes in justice and equality and beauty. If I am a person who is all of these things, then how is it that I did not know very much about what is going on right now in the world? That I had willfully avoided the news and therefore knew next to nothing about the Black Lives Matter movement, about the recent shootings of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile?

I was forced to take a look at myself when my sister asked if I had heard about what was going on. I was forced to admit that I knew just the bare bones of the two most current stories. The stories of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile. Two Black men who were shot by police officers in Louisiana and Minnesota, respectively. I knew enough to know that I didn’t want to know anymore. I knew enough to know that my heart hurt, that I was frightened, that racism is, as I already knew, an institution in my country.

This country, home of the American dream, of riches and bounty, of possibility and wonder; this country was also built on the backs of Black men and women. Which, as so many of us are often quick to say, is in the past. But the past has tentacles which reach far into the future. Tentacles that taint the very fabric of our society. In a country where African Americans constitute 30% of the population yet 50% of prisoners are African American, how can anyone say otherwise? The ostrich can say otherwise, with her head buried in the sand. The ostrich, fearful of reality, can say we are all doing the best that we can.

Which I know many of us are. We are all doing the best that we can, with the tools that we have been given, in the environments where we dwell. But our best isn’t good enough if our heads are buried. Our best is pretty damn weak if we deem ourselves too fragile to face the atrocities of the world. Our best isn’t good enough if we know we live in a bubble and decide to never leave it. Which I came to realize after my phone conversation with my sister. I live in a bubble and I take its cozy environs for granted.

I live in a bubble in beautiful Sonoma County, where self-care and yoga are mainstream, where finding healthful, organic food is almost easier than finding cigarettes. I live where I am surrounded by beauty, where art and culture are valued (even though there isn’t much in the way of nightlife). I live in West County, where everyone is mostly white and many are wealthy and make wine. And I do not begrudge anyone of anything, but I do see that the urgency and the direness of our situation as a country is muted and faded in the bubble I call home.

Don’t get me wrong, I consider myself lucky to live where I do. Though I wish there was more diversity (it’s getting better), I am grateful that I do not have to worry about violence happening in my backyard. I am grateful that I wake up in the morning to the sound birds chirping and not guns firing. But just because it is not happening in my own backyard does not mean that violence and oppression do not exist. Just because I am fortunate it does not give me the right to bury my head, to turn a blind eye. I must remove my head from the sand, and not just because I am a Black woman, but because I am a human being.

There is suffering in this world, suffering at every turn, much of it that is senseless and not easily explained. But the shootings of Black men in this country, though senseless, can be explained. These shootings occur because racism is still ingrained in the practices of our government, our economy, our society, our police forces. Racism is not simply a bygone affliction. It is a lingering evil that is perpetuated by our institutions of power.

Oppression is a reality for people of color, where the color of our skin often dictates our lot in life. Even if we do manage to succeed, even if we are fortunate to live somewhere that affords more opportunity or we are able to go to school, just by being alive we run the risk of being murdered in the street or in our car. Just by being Black we run the risk of dying. Dying a senseless death, dying before it our time, dying at the hands of those who are meant to protect us.

So, at my sister’s urging, I watched the videos of Sterling and Castile’s murders. When she told me to watch them I said I didn’t think I could handle it. She made me think again when she spoke of being a mother to her son, of being a wife. Castile and Sterling could be my nephew, my brother-in-law. Sterling and Castile could be me. So I watched the videos. I watched them to remove my head from the sand, to educate myself. I watched them so I can attempt to do something in an informed way. I watched them because it serves no one to “protect” myself from the horrors of the world.

I took the first step when I watched the videos today, when I learned the names of the men who were gunned down for no reason other than they were Black. I took the second step when I reached out to the Black Lives Matter movement, asking how I can help. I may not know what to do, but I have to do something. We all have to do something. Because these killings, this violence, this ignorance and oppression, has to stop. No matter what color we are, we are all in this together. We have to be, or it will never end. And for those who don’t know, the Black Lives Matter movement strives for the equality of all ethnicities, sexual orientations, creeds. The movement gives voice to the voiceless, it works to lift up the disenfranchised, to create the world we wish to see. Which is the duty of all of us as human beings who share this world. Will you join me?

I wish you a wild, free life. (And if you do live wild and free, please don’t take that freedom for granted. Use it.)


photo (18)
Me one year ago. Happy and healthy, no matter the size.
It’s unavoidable. It seems that a day doesn’t go by without my receiving a comment on how I look. And yes, I know that I look different from how I looked before I quit drinking. I certainly feel different. I know that nearly 30 pounds changes how a person looks. But this weight loss that I have experienced is just a side effect of changing my life. I didn’t set out looking to lose weight. I set out looking to change my life for the better. The weight loss is simply a byproduct. But according to our culture, it should be the icing on the cake. According to our culture, it warrants the full spectrum of commentary on my body and what others think of it.

What I have been so bewildered by is that I have not asked anyone for their opinion or their input on my appearance. But I hear it nonetheless. It would be one thing if someone simply said, “You look healthy.” Sometimes that is what I hear, and I thank them and continue on with my day. Though it can be nice to hear from someone I know that I look healthy — because I feel healthy and am the healthiest I have ever been — this is often not the case.

Everyone has their own opinion, and everyone is entitled to their opinion, but what a lot of people don’t realize is that they don’t always have to share their opinion. Sure, you can feel strongly about something, but if someone hasn’t asked for your input, you’re better off keeping your thoughts to yourself. Because your words have weight. Yes, it is up to me how I respond to what others say to me, and I strive to not take anything personally, but it is a constant practice and people are often unaware of how cruel their words can be.

Whether I take something personally or not, I believe that our words have power, have meaning. I believe that language can cultivate change, whether for the good or the bad. So why not use our words for good? Why not extend words of love and care rather than tossing around careless comments? Why would someone feel compelled to say to someone they hardly know, “Where did your body go?” (Yep, someone said that to me). Which, though rude and hurtful, actually just reminds me of a truth that is very easy to forget:  It’s not about me.

It’s not about me. What a relief, right? To remember, realize, recognize, that the comments that people decide to share are not about me. Are never about me. They are about them. Them and their perception of the world. These comments come from a place of their own self-perception, their own history with their own bodies and their own experiences. Does that make it okay for them to spew whatever bubbles to the surface? No. Knowing does not excuse their behavior, but it does explain it.

Though I know it is not about me, it is still rather exhausting to continually hear comments directed at me about my body. To hear, “You’re too skinny” or “Where’d your butt go?” or even, “You look amazing, how did you do it?” The last comment can be tiring because people typically don’t want to hear the reality of my weight loss. They want me to say, “I did a juice cleanse” or “I cut out carbs.” They don’t want to hear the truth:  “I quit drinking.” And they also most definitely don’t want to hear that I have an overgrowth of yeast in my body and that I’ve had to cut out what feeds the yeast. But I’m getting ahead of myself; let me start at the beginning.

When I quit drinking, I unknowingly began a journey of losing weight. Because I cut out a source of anxiety and pain, I immediately began to reap the benefits. The notorious alcohol bloat disappeared. As I became more mindful, I ate healthier foods because they were what I intuitively wanted and needed. But because I cut out alcohol, I also began to crave and eat sweets. Though I was eating a lot of sugar, I thought that I was making smart decisions based on the quality of sweets. Nothing processed, nothing fake, nothing like Twinkies or anything like that. But I was eating sugar every day.

Though I continued to lose weight, I began to feel sick. What I did not realize, what the doctors didn’t tell me, is that because I had taken antibiotics and did not have the knowledge of supplementing with strong probiotics and avoiding sugar, I had killed all of the good bacteria in my body. And not only killed the good bacteria, but had fed the bad. By eating so much sugar with a weakened immune system I had caused the yeast, which is naturally occurring in all bodies and beneficial when in balance, to essentially explode. The yeast, fed by my daily sugar intake, took over my body. Every time I ate a cookie or ice cream or bread, I fed the yeast. I had no idea, all I knew was that even though I had quit drinking and lost 20 pounds because of it, I felt bloated, tired, irritable, itchy, and out of balance.

After Western medicine failed to eradicate the yeast overgrowth in my body, which had culminated in underarm rashes and a furry yellow tongue (I know, sorry, it’s disgusting), I had to find other alternatives. I had to educate myself. I had found out from my initial research that sugar was the culprit, which caused me to cut out my beloved desserts, but I still hadn’t found relief. Only after reading countless books and poring over websites did I find out I had only been scratching the surface.

I found out that I had to not just cut out sugar, but also gluten and dairy, which the body processes as sugar. And not just those three culprits, but also mushrooms (yeast is a mold and feeds off of moldy foods like mushrooms), vinegar, and soy. Not to mention countless other items. Nothing processed, only small amounts of complex carbs like quinoa and brown rice, and a limited fruit intake (even natural sugar is bad in excess). Needless to say, I was miserable.

Not miserable because I had to eat healthy, for I was already eating better than I had in years, but that I had to cut out foods that made me happy and hadn’t seemed “bad.” Like mushrooms. Who knew? (I hadn’t; if I had known I would not have spent a month drinking a green smoothie every day which consisted of powder supplemented by multiple dried mushrooms, ugh!). Like dairy. I LOVE cheese! I had already given up alcohol, which was notorious for feeding yeast, and yet I still had to deal with this? To give up some of my only pleasures in life, like cheese and dessert? It wasn’t fair!

But this diet also led me to discover and take note of all the different ways I had replaced alcohol, how I had traded one method of coping for others. When I had to cut out my sweets, I saw that I had replaced booze with sugar, that sugar was a comforting presence in my diet but one that was also wreaking havoc on my system, like alcohol had. When I had to cut out my daily soy milk and chocolate croissants, I saw that I had taken comfort in foods that had little to no nutritional value, which was out of alignment with my newfound holistic approach to well-being. Though I was starving for what I craved, I also, finally and for the first time, became intimate with what my body needed. And I also, without trying or wanting to, lost another 10 pounds (cue the commentary). It is an ongoing journey, struggle, dance. It has been about four months since I fully committed to this diet, and I am still not “cured.” I’ve improved, but it’s still a long road ahead.

So when people comment on my body, it is frustrating because 1) I never set out to lose weight and 2) I have to eat the way that I do because I am fighting a fungus that has taken over my body! It is frustrating because, outside of the yeast, I am the healthiest I have ever been. I no longer drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes and I rarely eat anything processed. I do yoga nearly every day, I meditate most mornings, and I believe that I have begun a positive collaboration with the world. My body has changed because my life has changed. Which makes me so very happy and so unconcerned with how my body looks. I care about how my body feels. I am more than my body. And furthermore, it is frustrating because:  how often do men hear the kinds of comments that I do daily? Why is it okay for people to sound off on women’s bodies? Are we merely objects, subject to scrutiny? I think not.

I think we as women are much more than our physical selves. We are more than the numbers on the scale or the size on the tags. And yes, we might lose weight or gain weight, but being thin does not equate to being happy. I can attest to that. All that matters is that we are healthy, that we are caring for ourselves to the utmost of our ability, that we are vibrant and, most importantly, that we’re happy.

I wish you a wild, free life.