A Belief in Naming

I've been thinking a lot about naming the things I want.  Naming the Big Dream.  Naming the type of relationship I want to have with my health and body.  Naming the kind of person I want to be so as to better understand the direction I need and want to take my life in.

And then doing.

There's something to be said about putting your dreams out there into the Universe, right?  Something about manifesting intentions and positive energy?  (I can use these words because I live in California, obviously).

I don't have any concrete proof that all this works, but I'm going to put my faith in it because, in the end, what do I really know about how the Universe works?

So here's a dream of mine that I haven't been able to get out of my head lately:

I want to spend time in retreat.  Not retreating from something or someone, but rather, retreating into something.  My creativity, actually.  I want to spend a week, two weeks, even a month at some hideaway.  In my head, this is usually a cottage in Ireland like the one I stayed in on my last trip there, or somewhere in Mendocino County because it's one of my favorite places in California, or somewhere in the islands or mountains of Washington State.  A small town, a village, a country road.  Somewhere quiet and simple.  Somewhere cozy, where all I'll ever want to do is be there.  I want to sit at a table or in a really comfy chair and just write.  I want to be free of all the distractions and excuses I usually put in front of myself (though I have a sneaking suspicion they'll probably follow me anywhere, but I want to be able to rely on something other than my own willpower--like maybe the fact that there's just nothing else to do--to get my ass in gear).

I just want a place to be for a minute, and I'd like some fresh air.  Some different air.

So, Universe?  If this little dream could just, you know, manifest, that would be awesome.  But in the meantime, I'll see what I can do about this on my end too.

Daily Inspiration

Friends, I'm writing again.  More on this to come, but if you have a glass please raise it up because this is cause for some serious celebration.


[Photo source: http://www.kmweiland.com/free.php]

On "Wild" by Cheryl Strayed

It was the title that first caught my eye as I quickly looked over the "New Fiction" shelf in Barnes and Noble.  Wild.  It's one of my favorite words.  It's a word I love to think about because, for some reason, it comforts me.  I like to imagine the wilderness as this beautiful, untouched place.  This place where there is only you and the natural order of things.  It's scary, but it's honest, you know?  That's the best thing about the wilderness: it is honest.

In God's wilderness lies the great hope of the world

the great fresh, unblighted, unredeemed wilderness.

-- John Muir

I didn't buy the book that day, but did go back a month later when I couldn't get it off my mind.  I've been on a kick lately where I've been loving memoirs, especially those written by women who are going through it at the time.  I like being with them through the struggle, and I love being with them when they find their way to the other side.  It inspires me like nothing else.

So I was really looking forward to getting to know Cheryl.  I knew going it that this was going to be about her journey dealing with the utter tragedy of her mother's illness and death (fair warning: you'll cry), the disintegration of her small family, her despair, the breaking apart of her marriage, her foray into men and drugs, and then her determination to hike the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) and find herself in that Hail Mary attempt.  But I'll be honest, after getting a few chapters into the book, I wasn't sure I was going to like Cheryl very much.  She was blunt and edgy.  She said and did things that I'm not sure would be forgivable in my world.  She crossed moral lines I didn't agree with, she made choices I would ever have made.  There were so many moments where I thought, "No!  Don't do that!  Say this instead!  Pull yourself together!!!"  I just didn't understand her.

But I stuck with the book because I wanted to read about the PCT.  I wanted the writing to make it real in my mind, to allow me to see places I've never been to and experience things I haven't yet.

And somewhere along the way, I began to realize that I'm a judgmental ass.

Ms. Strayed tells it like it is and it's a real, raw and honest portrayal of the very rocky years of her mid-twenties.  The bottom came out from under her when her mother passed away so suddenly.  She was young and found herself in a horrible situation, with little family support, and a marriage to a man she loved but couldn't be with anymore.  She made choices.  We all do.  Her choices led her to the PCT and, eventually, herself.

Her telling of this intense 1,100 mile hike from the Mojave Desert to the border of Oregon and Washington is harrowing, painful and beautiful.  It has also inspired me to attempt a small portion (and by small I mean NOTHING LIKE WHAT SHE DID) of the PCT -- to do something I think is impossible, to challenge myself, and to see places I've only ever dreamed about.

So in the end, I loved this book.  I loved her journey.  I almost yelled at Nate when he attempted to make idle chit chat with me as I read through the final two pages -- I mean, who does that?

If you like memoirs, if you like honest story-telling or if you like tales of survival in every sense, I would suggest Cheryl Strayed's Wild.  I have a copy if you'd like to borrow it.


[Photo source: http://www.cherylstrayed.com/wild_108676.htm]

Wild Geese

I've been thinking of poetry lately, and the fact that I don't write it anymore.  I'm not even sure I know how to write it, or that I've been particularly inspired to write it.  But I know that something in me misses poetry and the reading of it.  When I mentioned this to a friend yesterday, she shared with me the following poem.  It struck me as so beautiful, so inspiring, and so comforting that I wanted to share it with everyone I possibly could.

So here you go, world.

Wild Geese

By Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
       love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.