Color

~

I promise I’ll have more words soon. They’ll come here:

And until then, which sorts of color do you need more of in your life?

↑ Press the one that makes you happy. ;)

Namaste my friends <3

Being a person

“You don’t pass or fail at being a person.”

Neil Gaiman

It’s true. Nothing to add. Except maybe this one other little tear-jerker moment from Avengers: Endgame.

“Everyone fails at who they’re supposed to be, Thor. The measure of a person, of a hero, is how well they succeed at being who they are.”

Thor’s mom

And I’d say you’re doing pretty good at that.

Let go of all those pesky, shamey “shoulds” you’ve picked up like obnoxious burrs along the way.

You’re allowed to be you. You are you. And that’s good.

~

Can I write for you?

That thing that excites you

This strange thing happens when I hear the sound of rushing water or the crashing of waves and find myself in the presence of beautiful, powerful, patient, carefree water. My soul feels astonishingly okay. It doesn’t mean I have to move to San Diego (*hey universe, this is a hint here*), but it does mean that every chance I get to be around–or better yet, in water–I have to say yes. To listen to that little voice saying, “remember this is your thing.” Cancel my entire day of plans when the “Hey, we’re going wakesurfing” text comes in? Absolutely.

Some of us as children were exposed to a wide world of colors and sounds and passions and adventures and allowed to take our pick, encouraged to define ourselves, to find ourselves. But I think even more of us were told (explicitly or through subtle encouragements, and lowkey manipulation) what we should be interested in. First of all, it needs to fit into your family’s style. Second, you have to be able to make a “real” career out of it. Money. It needs to be a fairly “normal” thing, and bonus if it fits the cliches assigned your assigned gender. Where I grew up, it meant that cooking, decorating, and hosting was for wives. Knowing my codependent self I probably never said this out loud, but I was so damn jealous of my sisters. (Guess what my happiest activities are now.)

One of my favorite things I’ve ever seen written is a little gem from psychologist Carl Jung: “Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself.” And I think it’s the same with doing, caring, pursuing, enjoying. Are you doing sensible things or are you doing you things? Follow what you’re assigned, what “makes sense,” or what’s “normal,” and the embers in your soul will slowly cool until some colorless ashes are that’s left. Listen to that unreasonable, silly, outlandish, obsessive little voice–“Hey it’s me, you know you love me, you know you want me, get over here!”–and you’ll find more and more moments in your life that are the just right moments, those times you feel inexplicably alive, find yourself beaming ear to ear, jumping out of bed in the morning.

I don’t make money playing piano, and I still have to go to work. But my mental health and sense of identity seems strangely correlated with how frequently I comply to the internal pull of those eighty-eight keys.

And regardless how tired I get of sitting down to write and coming up with loud, aching nothings–my bones tell me that I can never stop writing.

And no matter how struggly this year has felt, is feeling (and let’s be honest, “year?” ha, make it three), the more I give into the excitement I experience exploring and sharing the world of artisan cheeses, the more of those happy moments I feel, and the more purpose I find in my day to day life. And by give in, I don’t mean guiltily daydream, I mean go full nerd and buy textbooks, hold tastings and parings, launch an entire cheestagram (seriously–click here–you know you want to). Like screw your trust issues, CHASE that feeling, CLAIM that thing. Be ridiculous about it.

“The things that excite you are not random. They are connected to your purpose. Follow them.”

Terrie Davoll Hudson

What excites you?

~

Never mind subscribing to my blog today, just go follow my cheestagram!!! =D

@elbridgecheese

Roots

What are your roots?

And who told you?

Therapy homework one year consisted of writing the letter to my parents that I’d probably never send but always needed to write. At the time, the words gushed like a fresh wound–thousands and thousands and I never even reached the end. At the time, reading what I wrote and sharing bits and pieces became a cathartic therapy for me. It felt a bit like watching the wound scab over. Last week–and I don’t remember why–I pulled the letter up again. This time it felt strangely foreign. Oh I remember every second, but it’s not . . . I just don’t . . . need to remember anymore? It feels a little gratuitous now?

If I decide to go back, I can remember the odd and dizzying experience of trying to find my footing as a 20-year-old in a reality very different than the one I grew up in. Slowly dicing onions with shaking hands, I would contribute some thought to the chatter, something I thought sounded normal, and the whole Chipotle crew would fall silent and turn to look at me a little too curiously. Like I was from a different planet. We’d open the doors to a stream of normal people on their normal lunch breaks, and as I looked down and fidgeted with the tortilla press I would deliver the tense line, “What can I get for you?” over and over until Max stepped in with some brotherly taunting to teach me how to speak terrifyingly confident greetings, like “Well hey there, what brings you in today?!” My shoulders tightened progressively through the day until I ended my shift with a splitting headache and found myself back in bed crying over how completely lost I was.

Memories like these once served a useful purpose in fortifying my rejection of the world I had known where there were no crowds of normal people and I wasn’t allowed to get a job and rarely allowed to go to a friends’ house. The memories helped me prove to others (really so that I could prove to myself) that my childhood had been dysfunctional, that it was a culty experience that left me helpless in the outside world, and that I was right to get out when I could.

But now the memories feel, as I said, a little gratuitous. Like re-watching a bloody surgery I don’t need to re-watch. Reading my letter with its story after story of weird abuse doesn’t seem therapeutic anymore, at least for now. That time of uprooting is done.

We all come with confusing stories about who we are, why we are, where we must be headed, and what is even going on in this strange world. Many of these stories we’ve accepted from others, and they can feel set in stone. The stories speak of values deeply ingrained by our families, or by our cultures large and small. Values we rarely stop to question. Assumptions rooted deep within our psyches. Truths rooted deep within our bodies.

And then when things hit just enough of a chaos point, just enough dissonance and impossibility, just enough crashing and burning–we sometimes get to see that these roots may have been quite arbitrary, and realize it’s time to dig ourselves out.

So we uproot and replant. Or uproot and be blown around a lot and maybe never replant. Life can be hard and is different for each of us.

Uprooting, by the way, is not always a choice and is rarely pleasant. It takes courage and it usually means having hit a low point. So when you see someone uprooted–whether they’re still blowing in the wind or have found different soil–remember compassion.

So what were you told were your roots? Were they really roots for you? And are they still? And do they have to be? And are they allowing you to grow beautifully? Or are they stifling and starving you?

When I wake up in the middle of the night and, with the willpower of a person half asleep and half needing a distraction from the high pollen count, find myself scrolling from Kyiv bombings to missiles in the Korean peninsula to a senator swearing assault rifle regulation is off the table to a rich bully threatening the employees who make him his money to a major news outlet reporting on a major celebrity stating the least sexy thing a guy can do is fart to a money guru tweeting in all caps about the economy crashing and how you need to buy silver . . . it makes me wonder where my roots are?

I think a lot of us these days are finding ourselves tangled in news feeds. Somehow supposed to digest a thousand threats and crises and scandals and tragedies and offenses during an afternoon on the couch. Until we’re left with no willpower and little imagination and just a fizzle of who we were somewhere deep inside, sputtering a little weaker each day.

And then there are those who have a firm foundation from which to accuse and judge and know. Simple arguments and convenient theories and too much confidence and too narrow a window on the world. Some of us live with unquestioned roots that explain everything for us so that we’re not lost and anxious and we know exactly how it will all turn out. Until something drags us down into the street and exposes just how full our society is of things we don’t know, don’t understand, and wish we hadn’t seen, but can’t unsee.

In my experience, the logic-y, dogma-ish roots are too dry and inflexible and they tend to snap when life gets stormy enough. Which may be why despite hundreds of millions of people who are pretty sure they know what’s up, our society seems to blindly stumble from year to year, blaming and blaming and never quite fixing.

And if you also find yourself sleepless some nights, I wonder how your body itself may support you with its own roots in those worried moments. When all the reasons and plans and budgets and jobs and rules and structures and explanations aren’t working for you, maybe your breath will still sustain you like it always has, and your feet will find they’re still rooted to the ground, and you’re still alive, and you’re still here, and you can still touch and taste and see and hear and feel and laugh and cry and hug and dance and sing and do the body things that don’t require a credit score or a stock exchange.

Your feet can’t tell you why the world is the way it is today. Your hands can’t tell you where we’re headed. Your breath can’t change the trajectory of humanity–except that it can calm and center you and that a bunch of you’s make up humanity and that maybe if we all stopped to breathe calmly our trajectory may change. You, though, in your body, right now, can’t solve it all. But I think it’s your chaotic, scrolling brain that is insisting you find all the solutions–not your body. I think your body is just waiting for you to drop in and find the same aliveness and ease that you did as a running and pushing and swinging and bouncing and singing child, before you joined the world of the adults who have to know it all.

Today, your feet and your hands and your belly and your lungs and your movement and your stillness and your ears and your eyes and even your nose and your mouth can be your roots to a different kind of place, a different state. Not one of fixing or judgment or worry or need. One of aliveness, of being. And with those roots you may find some rest and peace.

And while the world needs you to come back to the work from time to time, when you find yourself blowing in the wind I wish you the courage to let the wind blow around you as you feel the ground with your feet and enjoy being a body.

~

Let’s find roots together as we go? Email address below. <3