I’ll never not forget. I’ll never not remember.

Screenshot 2018-10-23 at 8.07.21 PM

I forgot.

Who.

I was.

 

Forgot

the wind

even as it was

lifting my hair.

 

Forgot

the scent of

soil

even as it coated

the soles of my feet.

 

Forgot

the taste

of gratitude

even as

I bathed

in my

blessings.

 

Forgot

the ecstasy

of giving

even as

I went

through the motions.

 

I forgot.

 

But now

I remember.

 

I will forget again.

 

But I vow

to always.

Every crust of dawn

and every wholesome dusk.

Remember.

 

 

Advertisements

angry mom.

Screenshot 2018-10-16 at 9.56.48 AM

This blog is a place of authenticity. This post was difficult for me to write because of how much authenticity it required of me; it is a subject I have been ashamed to talk about previously.


When I became a mother, a part of myself that I thought I had worked through reared its ugly head: my anger.

At first, I thought it was just pregnancy hormones; after all, pregnant women are known for being rather touchy. I would become unnecessarily angry over, say, the dishes not being done: I would yell about it, then devolve into uncontrollable tears. Then I thought it was the stress and sleeplessness of being a new mom: how can I be calm when I’m getting an hour of sleep a night, and my colicky baby is screaming her head off for hours? When it didn’t go away after those times passed, it became one of the many factors of the breakdown of the relationship between my daughter’s father and I: every slight on his part evoked a response of resentment and sneering, all-too-eloquent poisonous words on my part. After our separation, my friends convinced me the anger was a survival mechanism my psyche used in response to a toxic situation.

Yesterday, Luna and I were in Dollar Tree. She was cranky from having to be dragged from place to place, usually having to hold my hand or be stuck in a bus seat or grocery cart seat. All she wanted was to go to a playground and play, like we had done that morning. Errand days are always a bit stressful. Today I had to pick her up and put in the cart on the way to the checkout line, so she wasn’t grabbing everything off the shelves, and she was not pleased. The whining began. The very loud whining that feels like a physical grating on my every nerve.

“Stop it,” I hissed. “Stop right now.”

She whined louder. “But I love you!”

“Then stop!” I hissed more as I put the items on the belt.

She became irritated that she didn’t get to help put the stuff up on the counter belt. The whining continued. She grabbed my card out of the chip reader while I was hurriedly trying to put things in our bag.

I yanked the card out of her hand and shoved the cart away from the counter. “You need to stop right now. I’m done with this. I’m over it. We’re not going to the playground after this.”

I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, and I felt embarrassed, and my anger grew out of my embarrassment. My vision felt tunneled, my breath short.

“But I want you to be happy!” Luna whined louder.

I hurriedly paid, the cashier wisely ignoring the situation with a straight face, and practically ran out of the store.

Luna repeated her beseeching.

“Then stop! Stop right now!” I said, anger bordering on desperation. “Stop whining!”

I grabbed our bags and pulled her by the hand down the street, my anger prickling at the edges of my skin, making every sound and image feel like a physical assault on my senses.

A couple blocks down, as Luna walked on a low wall, I abruptly stopped and sat down. She stopped as well, her eyes downcast, and sank down onto my lap.

I held her, this little girl that I had grown in me in the paradisaical heat of Maui, where I bounced from one bad housing situation to another, and felt completely emotionally unsupported. This little girl I had spent days, months alone at home with in the darkness and isolation of the rural Alaskan winter, where my only emotional support was the internet, the mountains, and my own notebook, other than the occasional phone call with my parents in Australia

This little girl I had roadtripped with from Alaska to Oregon. This little girl I tried to teach how to be around other kids while also protecting her from the disdain of others, because she is wild and strong and female, words society does not like to be in the same sentence.

This little girl who had to watch her parents fight, and who had to learn that we both loved her even while we no longer were going to live together.

This little girl who holds so much of me and so much of her dad. This little girl who, last night, as I tried to get her ready for bed, said to me with tears in her eyes, “I miss my dad.”

And I held her and said, “I know. I understand.”

Screenshot 2018-10-16 at 9.55.01 AM


When I was growing up, my anger was not well received. Because I was wild and strong and female, and despite Alaska being a state filled with wild, strong females, American society still poisoned the population’s subconscious. I used to–still do, sometimes–joke with people about how I got kicked out of five day cares and most babysitters wouldn’t watch me. In elementary school, and as I transitioned into adolescence, I learned that the way to ensure I would have any kind of friends at all is to make sure all negative emotions are tucked away fully.

I thought my calming down was a result of becoming intensely interested in spiritual matters such as meditation; when I left home at 18, I learned this was not the case, as I descended into a dazed, years-long subliminal depression that drove me to get drunk on a weekly basis and indulge in other things that fed an internalized hatred of my Shadow-self as I desperately tried to follow a niggle I didn’t understand that arose from my soul. My burial of my childhood anger and loneliness were buried even deeper when I became homeless, and being agreeable became a survival tactic.

The hardest part of becoming a parent is not the tantrums, or the responsibility, or the sleeplessness.

The hardest part of becoming a parent is facing your own deeply buried wounds. Facing the child inside you that is still fuming, still crying, still demanding the acknowledgement they desperately need.


Screenshot 2018-10-16 at 9.56.16 AM

I’ve become intensely aware of my anger lately, perhaps because I’ve increased the level of meditation, yoga, and intentional movement I’ve incorporated into my life recently. In an article on mindbodygreen by Tom Cronlin, he talks about how the deep physiological rest of meditation helps suppressed angers become unlocked, the body recognizing a spot of deeply buried tension that is not meant to be there, that is foreign to us.

Last night, I tossed and turned in bed, my heart plagued with guilt about my public impatience with Luna that day, and on other days. Impatience that illicits her desperate comments of “But I love you! But I want you be happy!” and wrenches my spirit. I want so much to be the perpetually calm mother she deserves. I remember with painful clarity when she was a baby, and she had been screaming for an hour, and it was still hours until her father got home so I could get even a five minute break, and the physical assault of her cries on my senses pushed me to scream back, “Stop crying! Just stop! Please just stop!”

I remember when that little crawling thing looked at me, appalled, and gulped back her tears. And the guilt that even now crashes over me when I remember.

I know that, to avoid wounding her the way I was wounded, I must heal myself.


Luna is now 3 and a half years old, and I know better now that she is my mirror. When I am tense, she is tense. And when I can’t stand her whines and cries and anger, it’s because I can’t stand the whines and cries and anger of my own inner child.

Like a child, I am intensely sensitive to sensory stimulation. There’s a reason I tell people I have a low stress tolerance, and that I don’t like having more than one or two or, at most, three things on my to-do list a day, and it is because of my deeply buried anger that I don’t like to talk about. That I don’t like to admit to people, because I know that to most people, I seem sweet as can be.

I’ve found that the key to handling this anger in my parenting (and thus, most of the time, avoiding personal meltdowns like the one I had the day before, when I felt too paralyzed by the sensory stimulation to act true to myself) is to remember that my ability to handle stress is directly linked to my ability to have fun during whatever I’m doing. This is my parenting strategy in every situation. I tell people it’s called playful parenting, which I’m sure is a thing that there are books on, because I can’t possibly be the only one to do this. But if I can treat my daughter, in her anger, the way I wish I had been treated for my anger, then perhaps she won’t need to bury her anger.

If she starts freaking out, first I’ll honor her feelings. I’ll tell her it’s OK to be angry, but that _______ (it’s not OK to hit; we need to do this thing because ______; I need her to be patient for me until I finish _____ ). I’ll give her a hug if that’s what she needs. If it continues…I’ll try to make it funny. She screams at me, I scream back, but with a smile and a laugh afterwards. Pretty soon it becomes a game.

A benefit of her getting older, too, is that I’m able to talk to her. Last night, when we got home–and she was tired, and hungry, and probably still sensitive after our argument earlier—she started whining again, and I threw up my hands and walked quickly to the bedroom. She followed, starting her beseeching statements again. I put my hands up and said, “I need…I need…us to just breathe for a minute.”

“Ok,” she said, immediately calming.

And we stood together, raising our arms up and down, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

Her little voice saying, “Just….breathe.”

And my own inner child calmed.

And I felt so grateful for the way parenting can be a journey of healing the child within ourselves.

Screenshot 2018-04-07 at 4.08.34 PM


My to-do list for helping my inner child release her anger and sadness:

  • Get a gym membership, or sign up for a martial arts class. Something physical and aggressive to channel that inner anger.
  • Make some angry art this week.
  • Curl up alone in my room and let my inner child cry and punch pillows.
  • Be gentle with myself in moments of sensory stimulation and busy-ness: feed a mindset of playfulness, and wear soft cozy things, and hug Luna a lot.

What is your inner child telling you, in your worst moments? Don’t put their words and feelings down. Honor them. They are you.


xoxo,

cropped-siguntitled

imposter syndrome + other fears on the way to wholeness.

Screenshot 2017-07-16 at 11.02.48 AM

This Friday, I’m meeting with a woman I met several weeks ago, along with her life coach that she excitedly told me about when I tentatively revealed to her my interest in coaching. “This is an opportunity you don’t want to miss,” she texted me last night. “Especially if you’re really interested in true entrepreneurship!”

Entrepreneurship. It’s something I’ve wanted for years–ever since I first started blogging, really. I used to be an avid reader of blogpreneurs like Leonie Dawson and Gala Darling, and on numerous occasions I attempted to monetize my blogs. Various factors always broke my attempts down: some were external, like finances; most were all internal fears.

“Who am I to dole out advice on life matters? I’m so young,” I quietly lamented to myself. “I don’t know anything, really. To wish to be a teacher or a coach is so narcissistic of me.”

So I stepped back. I continued blogging, but stopped trying to make it in to a business. Briefly, I attempted to create an intuitive painting business during my daughter’s first year of life, but the same fears cropped up. I buried my longing for entrepreneurship beneath being responsible. But the niggling feeling wouldn’t go away.


This past weekend, I did another one of the journal prompts from Rebecca Campbell’s Light is the New Black. She encourages readers to answer the question, “What do you secretly long to be?” I answered it stream-of-consciousness-style, and let the words pour out of my pen (a few have been left out for the sake of keeping the topic of this post focused):

I secretly long to be a guide, a coach, a mentor–to make a career out of what I already love to do: get people fired up to achieve their dreams and overcome obstacles, to unleash love and encouragement on the fearful, to nurture and comfort the hurt…

I secretly long to be a life-doula, to lend my hand when people need help, to lend advice when people feel lost, to teach practices to help people accomplish their dreams…

I secretly long to be a leader, to inspire, to be in service, to be a channel for divine wisdom…

I secretly long to be a successful writer who is handsomely paid for my work, my work that inspires and helps all the people who need it in their lives…

I secretly long to be financially abundant, so that I can provide nurturance to myself, my family, my friends, the earth, and disadvantaged peoples…

I secretly long to create a beautiful, lush, abundant, peaceful, and workable intentional community and retreat in the mountains…


All of these stoke fear in me, I wrote.

Fear of responsibility. Fear of failure. Fear of not being good enough. Fear of rejection. Fear of hatred. Fear of being ignored. Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of being annoying. Fear of not living up to the role. Imposter Syndrome as the cherry on top. 

As high as I felt while I wrote my secret longings, I plunged down deep into the fears I also wrote down. I tried to let my wise self speak, reassuring me that fear is part of following our soul’s calling, fear is part of becoming whole. The deeper the calling, the more fear we have of it; it is, in fact, a sign that path is the right one.


The appointment with my friend and her life coach looms like a big, red circle on the calendar. My heart beats in excitement and trepidation. So many times have I tried to follow my soul’s calling; so many times have I failed. There have also been times where an opportunity ended up being too good to be true, and I ended up with time and money wasted. My soul wants me to hear what this life coach has to say. My heart wants to believe that this is the opportunity I am seeking. My mind is holding onto a healthy dose of skepticism.

But the true reason for my trepidation is my imposter syndrome. How can I think of being a coach? How can I think of trying to be a leader? I have so many flaws. I can’t even live up to my own standards, many days.

Then, at the end of a long and rather stressful day yesterday with my daughter, I opened ListheNB to a random page.

BE OK WITH WHERE YOU ARE

Be OK with where you are and all that you are right now–especially the bits that you are working on. The people you are here to guide are the ones who are a few steps behind you. You don’t need to have it all sorted, or be an expert…

It’s your humanness that truly touches people, not your superhuman-ness.

…You don’t need to pretend or prove that you have it together, rather, just share what you have figured out so far. We are all in this school of life together. There is no final destination, no end point, just increased consciousness and a deeper understanding.

…Sometimes words get in the way of truth.

Soften your mind, and your soul will be touched.

And I took a deep breath. And I was suddenly lighter.


I’m 25 and I’m still figuring it out. I’m still learning about life, and myself, and how to navigate my way healthily through all those two experiences contain. I still have so much to learn.

There is so much I have learned, however. I think of how much I’ve grown these past twenty-five years, and I experience a sensation of expansion, as though I am seeing myself and my life from an outside point: I see my life as a tapestry, not yet finished, but beautiful and whole and complex in and of itself. I see patterns beginning, ending, beginning. And I know that I am whole, and I am becoming even more whole.

I am here to learn. I am here to teach what I have learned. And because I am a mother, much of what I will teach will be nurturing and encouraging. And because I am a spiritual woman, much of it will be holistic and rather woo-woo. And because I am a writer in spirit as much as in skill, much of it will be through writing.

The awareness of my position in life does not take away my imposter syndrome; in fact, I doubt that fear will ever go away. But, perhaps it is this Venus Retrograde, perhaps it is my moontime right now, perhaps it is simply that I have lived a quarter century and am leaving my past behind–I am no longer willing to let my fears run my life.

Perhaps I’m not worthy of being a guide, or a writer, or a leader. But I think, perhaps, I’ll try anyway. The older I get, the more I find that helping others is what brings me the simplest, most lasting, pure joy. So I’ll follow that. And see where it leads me.


xoxo,

cropped-siguntitled

may all your days end in laughter.

The ego is sneaky. It likes to think it’s the master of the house.

The ego is like the overbearing party guest who decides they need to be the center of attention, and if no one likes it, they can damn well leave the party.

Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not one of those people who think the ego needs to be destroyed. On the contrary, when people talk about “transcending the ego,” I will often be the one of the first to defend the right of the ego to have a seat at the table, being, of course, integral to our individual survival.

But I also know the ego isn’t the master of the house (the body, the life). The soul is.

Most of the time, this knowledge is purely intellectual. I can’t claim to have gotten to a point in my life when the ego is never the master of my house. The times that my soul is entirely in charge have too much distance between them, amidst the fears and anxieties of life.

However, my personal intention in my spiritual practice isn’t to cut the ego down to size, as I’ve found this to be an exhausting endeavor; my intention, rather, is to make far more frequent the amount of time the soul is in charge. This takes consistency and a healthy dose of cleverness and awareness, but is far less likely to feel like rowing upstream with a heavy wind to your face.

As I said, though, the ego is sneaky. When it’s not being the overbearing party guest, it’s being the vindictive one; the one that will let the host (the soul) think that they’ve finally got a handle on things, and then they make a few snide remarks that emotionally beat down the host and–sometimes–ruin the party.

The ego is great for taking the piss out of people (as my Australian mother would say), as well as for when a situation calls for strong defenses. Not so great, however, for situations meant to be expansive and wonderful or, at the very least, fun.


 

On Monday this week, the New Moon, I cleaned my apartment as much as I could. Keeping up with a toddler’s messes is difficult at best, and I lamented that I hadn’t yet been able to buy a new vacuum. Still, I tried my best. After a semi-stressful midafternoon trip to the library with my grouchy Lunabugs, she was sitting in front of a movie as I made dinner. My energy felt scattered, and I felt a sudden yearning for ceremony.

Those are the times I know my soul is clearing her throat and nudging me: when the yearning for ceremony becomes so great that I move without thinking. Ceremony grows out of the moment instead of feeling forced.

I found myself in front of my altar. The lights were out, except for the blue glow of the small TV that Luna watched her movie on, and my mind was already working on tuning out the sounds of Barbie – The Diamond Castle. Smoke curled up from the sage bundle I held over the central candle flame, and I waved the smoke around the room and verbally intoned a prayer of cleansing and blessing (Luna ignored me, being used to me doing this sort of stuff).

By the time I made it back to the altar, the sound of the movie barely reached my ears. My arms were out. Gratitude and love were pouring forth from my heart as I prayed to the directions, to the manifestations of the divine I connect with, to the soul of the land. I barely spoke–rather, the prayer was a feeling, unleashing in pulsing waves from every part of me. I began to caress myself, starting at my feet and working my way upward, sending these waves of love and gratitude to every part of my body as my awareness dwelled in each. I swayed and danced as I reach my torso, sang and touched my tongue and ran my fingers through my hair as I brought myself nearly to the brink of tears (I always am, when I take the time to give myself love).

When I finally reached my head/brain and turned once more towards my altar, I lit the other three candles arranged around it, and picked up my glass of red wine. I poured some into a small glass bowl with a few sprigs of rosemary in it, and held the wine aloft, unexpected words bubbling up intuitively: “To the Original Love, from which came Life.”

The glass bowl I put down, and picked up my own glass again. Luna noticed what was happening, and asked to be picked up. I hefted her onto my hip, and held the glass up. “My intention for this New Moon, for this moon phase, is to stand in the light of the Original Love. I am in the flow of the Light of the Original Love.”

I sipped some wine, then began expressing my gratitude once more to the directions, the manifestations of the Divine in my life, and to the Land. “Thank you, ____, thank you for your presence!”

Luna grabbed my face. “My presents!” She claimed. I laughed, and kept speaking my farewell; Luna kept repeating her own statement. She joined me in saying “Blessed Be” as I extinguished each candle.

I was bathed in absolute pure bliss and gratitude. My soul was the life of the party. All of my inner eyes were on her and she filled my body-house with Life and Joy. I was riding the high of the party…

then Luna “colored” with blueberry-stained yogurt in two of my favorite poetry books.

Suddenly I plunged into absolute irritation. “No!” I cried. “Not okay! You know that’s not okay! Get away from my books!” (I’m very protective of my books.) My ego grabbed the mic and plunged into streams of foul language. “Ugh, if you would just pay attention…I can’t believe you would try to do a ritual with your TODDLER present…and now look, you’ve gone from spiritually connected and love-filled to hypocritically angry…who are you kidding, you’ll never be who you want to be if you can’t keep it together for one freaking hour after a ceremony, why do you even TRY?”

As I started resentfully reading to Luna, I suddenly realized what had happened.

I had just made a very powerful intention for this moon cycle to dwell in the very energy of Original Love, and my ego FREAKED OUT.

Out of self-preservation, it flipped its lid. It went “OH NO. There’s a chance I won’t be needed anymore. Something needs to go wrong. It is going to go wrong RIGHT NOW, and it’s going to happen because you’re riding a HIGH of SACREDNESS and you haven’t grounded properly yet and you’re not paying enough attention…!”

Then when that thing did go wrong, my ego went, “Oh good, now that that went wrong, I can now insult my host so badly that they won’t ever try to be in charge of this party again, and thus my rightful place of Head Honcho will no longer be jeopardized.”

Once I realized the drama that just went on between my soul and my ego, the irritation with myself and with Luna just completely melted away. It felt like such a grand joke to play on me.

In fact, I just had a thought: the situation could even be seen as the Universe playing a joke on me. “Oh look at that, Rebecca is getting too serious again, forgetting that no matter how spiritual-y she is, Life still happens, and Life is messy…so let’s send her a reminder, eh?”

I once read something–I can’t remember where, but it’s always stuck with me–where someone said something along the lines of, “If you’re not laughing with the Universe, you don’t get the joke.”

This time I got the joke. Maybe not in time to not be upset about my poetry books, but at least I laughed at myself in the end. Oh, ego–you’re a sneaky one. And the Universe is even sneakier.

And maybe that’s one of the qualities of Original Love. It’s finding your own mistakes genuinely hilarious.

So I laughed at myself, then kept reading to Luna–this time, with more expression, more comedy, more singing, so that when I was ready to stop and eat some dinner, she was desperate for me to continue.


Think of a time when your day seemed to go from great to horrible, yet somehow you were still able to laugh.

That was your soul, back in charge.


xoxo,

cropped-siguntitled

the things that make me weird.

This past week, I jumped on the bandwagon of reading Light is the New Black by Rebecca Campbell (I plan to do a review of it at a later time). One of the points she talks about in it is the fact that often what makes us ‘weird’–the parts of ourselves we sometimes feel ashamed of, or wish we could change–are often exactly the sort of qualities that support our souls, and souls’ calling. The sooner we embrace them, the better.

In this blog, I’m wanting to practice being authentically me. Embracing my whole self, rather than painting a picture of who I want to be. I’ve had a lot of blogs in the past, and though I enjoyed writing on all of them, once I stopped accepting my weird (around the same time I conceived Luna, and aaaaaall kinds of shame and emotional patterns I didn’t know I had, but that’s a story for another post), I stopped being able to consistently keep one blog going, much less one blog with authentic and quality content.

I’m hoping that by being authentically me here, I’ll inspire others to be authentically themselves, as well.

Here’s some things I wrote down during my reading of LITNB about some things that make me weird, but that I secretly love about myself, despite feeling ashamed by them when in the company of people who don’t accept my weird (in fact, I can tell these days who I actually need in my life by the level at which they accept my weird).

  • I’m more interested in solving the world’s problems with an optimistic heart. I believe that joy enhances the process and the results of the world-healing and problem-solving so many of us are trying to do.
  • I LOVE all things woo-woo, witchy, and goddessy.
  • I’d pick a kid’s movie over any other genre any day.
  • I’m interested in all people and their life stories. Judgement feels icky to me. If I don’t vibe with someone, I want to know why I feel that way, and I have the urge to have conversations with that person so that my preconceived notions can be flipped on their head. (This is a quality I’ve had to learn to balance with caution.)
  • I can be silly and serious at the same time. I love making jokes about what I’m also very serious talking about.
  • I’d rather do things that light me up inside. I feel my feelings–I can’t help to, honestly, being a Pisces Moon–but I am not the sort of person who’ll stay wallowing in them for days. I’ll have a one day pity party, and then I’m back to doing the things that make me feeling amazing. Blame it on my fun-loving Gemini Sun.
  • Laughter, hugs, and good food shared are the solution to most ills.
  • I love plans and lists, but I love to live day by day even more.
  • I feel all the things and their opposite at the same time.
  • I highly value my home life, privacy, and alone time–I need it in regular doses in order to feel centered and grounded.
  • I’m very eloquent when expressing myself in writing, but not so much when speaking out loud! Talking out loud, I can’t seem to connect my heart/head to my voicebox.
  • Hanging out in cafes, just drinking tea or coffee, and reading/writing for hours is SO FUN.
  • Walking = absolute daily necessity for sanity.
  • I value slowness, quiet, and freetime just as much as I value wildness, stimulation, and loudness.
  • Making people feel good makes me feel good; when people reject my sweetness, compliments, optimism, or silliness, I stop feeling comfortable around them.

What makes you weird? Comment below ❤

xoxo,

cropped-siguntitled

an ode to Eugene in autumn.

written in my journal, on 10.5.18; typed here with some additions.

I’m sitting in Townshend’s Tea Company in downtown Eugene. Outside, the rapidly changing leaves on the trees are waving about in the wind, and rain comes down intermittently. It’s finally October, finally autumn, and I relish every morning that I wake to clouds, to rain, to the cold and wet and color and mysticism of fall.

This season wakes something ancient in me.

Toeing the line between life and death, between past and future, inhabiting the numinous–it is here I remember my power, and my ancestors whisper in my bones, and the future sparks at my fingers. Mortality and immortality dance in my chest, yet I finally feel wholly calm. My soul has been parched. Now it drinks.

Speaking of drinks, I now have a mint-earl grey creme oatmilk latte in my hand, the smell comforting, the warm glass lovely and cozy in its simplicity. A warmed croissant sits beside it. Feeding my body like this, in a cafe on a rainy day, is and always has been a feast for my soul as well.

People tend to look at my oddly when I lament that I don’t much like summer here in central Oregon. In the summer heat, I miss my homeland of Alaska desperately: its rain, its lush summer damp, the hot-cold of the sun and wind as whales and otters cruise the mountainous, pebbled shoreline. In comparison, I feel ungrounded, anxious, and out of touch with my soul in Oregon’s dry heat. It’s only when the rains return that I feel once more that this is home as well.

And it is home, now, I suppose. When I allow myself moments of quiet, like right now, or at sunset or sunrise from a high point (the buttes, perhaps; or the top floor of a certain tall parking garage), I feel suddenly overcome by the depth of love I feel for this city, for its tree-soaked streets and story-filled buildings.

I was remembering, recently, that before we moved down here, Luna’s dad Mackenzie said to me, “Just watch, it’ll be like a second Maui for you” (referring to the deeply transformative two years I spent in the middle of the Pacific Ocean).

His prediction was a premonition, though I doubt he remembers saying it. I’ve experienced so much–some difficult, most wonderful. People have entered my life that drastically altered my perceptions of myself and the world in which I move. So many feelings have swirled in me, intricate and complex yet oh so simple. I would say that I am a different woman now, but I’m not: it’s more that I understand myself far better than I did in 2016. In fact, I’ve come to think most adults don’t truly change. We just become more whole. More wholly ourselves. More holy.

Two years in Maui had the same effect on me. If I’m honest, if I left Eugene now, after only two years, I would yearn for Eugene as much as I often yearn for that Pacific paradise. Like Hawaii, Eugene is a place that seems to inhabit the numinous, and it attracts those who yearn for such spaces of possibility. Between mountains and sea; between forest and desert; between revolutionary and conservative; Eugene is a place that pushes and pulls, that is never content being entirely one thing.

I do not think I’d love it so much if it wasn’t so indecisively itself.

xoxo,

cropped-siguntitled