Life Unraveled

Leaving places has become a bit of a standard for me throughout my adulthood.  Part of the fun (if it can be called that) of growing older is noticing the patterns of behavior that wind through the colorful threads of story that make up life as we know it.  For me, moving places and then leaving at a certain point is one of them.  Doing so on a whim, or with trust, or with whatever you choose to call it, is another.  Wringing all the juice out of each spot along the way and then setting sail for another land, another port of call, a new spot on the map: been there, done that.   It's a thing for me I suppose, and I would say I am as comfortable doing it as anyone else I know.  Dare I also say, I may have even gotten pretty good at it. As I prepare to leave Hawaii in the morning, I can see how this pattern, this restless thread, has run through my life since before I can remember.  I have always had the wanderlust.  I never used to know what it wa...

Portland is my kind of city. To start, it isn't just bike-friendly. Oh no--it has something approaching bike worship going on. The residents of this cozy little part of the Northwestern US take great pride in motoring around sans motor, with bike lanes in every direction and a surplus of signage (a la Amsterdam) directing you here and there on your two wheels. There is even a cycle path alongside a major freeway: Why should gas-guzzlers be the only ones able to escape the city life and head to the mountains on a whim? But truly, escaping is not something top of mind for Portland's inhabitants. There is a palpable sense of enjoyment permeating the air, a Portlandia joie de vivre if you will, that is easy to acknowledge and even easier to get swept up in. Life here is quirky and simple and exactly what Portlanders want. You know this not because everyone is rushing in with glowing testimonials, but because they actually don't have to say a word. The smiles, the eye c...

I have not officially gone on record with any New Year's resolutions this year.  That itself is something of a first--I typically love to start fresh, wipe the slate clean and plot a new course no matter what area of my life I feel needs some sprucing up--but I just cannot come up with anything in particular for 2014.  Focusing on one little aspect of daily existence doesn't seem enough.  Instead, I have been been examining what it is that I am committed to in my life.  What do I spend my time doing every day?  Are those commitments making me happy?  Am I making time for things that lift me up or am I frowningly trudging through too many lost minutes, days, and months?  In taking on this little science project, I have been trying to be as honest with myself as I possibly can.  That is no easy task.  I imagine nobody wants to admit that they don't particularly care about what they are doing for a living, or that they seem to be repeating past ...

Snaking my way across Spain on a leisurely, half-empty passenger train bound for Madrid, I am shocked just how quickly the hours can pass without one single thought of boredom entering my mind. I pass a good portion of the time staring out the large square window to my right, taking note of the endless expanses of green and brown land, dotted with nothing more than farms here and there and the occasional small city or town popping up rather infrequently. The sky is blazing blue, clear and stunning. I'm feeling it. I like Spain. And having spent three days exploring (and slowly falling in love with) Barcelona, I can say with confidence that five total days in this country will likely serve as nothing more than a sneak preview of a longer visit that will happen at some point in the future. As for Madrid, for so long now the capital of Spain has served as an important benchmark in my discussions about Europe, a giant "X" marking the spot of the last stop on this epic ...

Ah, 2012. It was a year of dreams, old and new, it was a time to sit in silent contemplation for ten days, to go deep, to let go, to suddenly feel like breaking free. It was a time to embrace myself, to accept all of it, to succeed and fail at this, to uncover some demons, to realize they were never quite as horrible as I always thought. It was a birthday present like no other, a phone call made to a friend for support, it was being too scared to make that final click on the laptop and then feeling absolutely relieved once I did, of wondering what I had just done, of knowing only that it was the right choice. It was a time of turning 39, of pensive reflection, of getting excited for change. It was talking to others about my future and getting caught up in a frenzy of contagious inspiration, of making plans and not really knowing what I was doing or saying or how it would all come together but somehow trusting, always knowing, that it would. It was saying goodbye to coffee, nine yea...

I haven't felt like writing much lately. I don't know exactly what I want to talk about today either, but I know there is something to say, and my fingers are rolling along the keyboard, so let's just see what comes up. Ready or not... Life these days has been up and down, sometimes severely so. In other words, I guess I am guilty of being profoundly alive. I am definitely conscious, feeling everything, and certainly that kind of alertness has its moments. Like for instance, when I start to go into a full-blown panic attack over absolutely nothing, with no apparent trigger or logical reason for its occurrence. Heart races, breath quickens, pains emerge all over the body. Chaos ensues, mentally and physically. Not pretty. This kind of stuff has been happening for several weeks now. I have heard many Buddhist teachings about "leaning into" pain and suffering, encouraging you to dip your toes into its muddy waters even when it feels like the world may just ...

I went jogging this morning. Big deal, right? It probably would not have been such a headline news story except that I have not done so in several years. I'm not sure why I felt like doing it, yet today I woke up determined. Sometimes it is best not to question such impulses, but simply to indulge them. So I slipped on my sneakers, the ones that spend way more time in the closet than on my feet, clipped my Ipod to my t-shirt and off I went. I started off slow. Okay, that is probably an understatement. I felt more like the Tin Man, and a 90-year old version at that. My knees creaked. My ankles pulsed. I was cracking all over the place, my body threatening to give out at any moment and collapse into a pile of weary old bones. But I kept going. It was not a long run by any means (just down to the end of a rather long street near my apartment and back again), but it was good enough. I trudged along the canalside pathway, picking up a little steam. This wasn't so bad...